


Like the Anacrusis to a Symphony

by musicanova



Series: Barricade Boys AUs [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Australia, Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, As I'm sure you're all aware even after all this time I don't know how to tag, Bad Matchmaking, Everyone pines, M/M, Music Puns, Mutual Pining, Oblivious, One day this author will learn how to write, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-indulgent stupidity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 28,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicanova/pseuds/musicanova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Now I was going to say I want more timpani in Bar 21 but I can’t because <i>Grantaire’s not here</i>!” the conductor yells pointedly at the empty spot in the corner of the percussion section. </p><p>Or, the Australian High School Band AU that specifically three people in the world asked for, and the remaining something billion didn’t need in their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CalamitosumNoctis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamitosumNoctis/gifts), [feuillyish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feuillyish/gifts), [Tumblr user incxndescnthearts](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Tumblr+user+incxndescnthearts).



> For my tumblr friend [Midnight](http://ohbuckbarnes.tumblr.com/), this is that Avengers High School AU I barely started last year but decided to change to Les Mis seeing as you never got a welcome into the fandom after I dragged you here. (And yes, don't worry, that Finn/Poe is still on my long list of stuff I want to write in the nearish future, and I know it's been two months, but I just haven't found the perfect little prompt.)
> 
> For any of you who actually to read my other stuff, namely The Winter's Children Programme series of the Cap fandom, on top of being super busy I kind of got stumped on the upcoming chapter after losing my previous planning, so that'll be on hold for a little while longer.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd abandoned it for four years - but the moment he opens the book again, he doesn't know how he ever did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, but I tried. After switching this from Avengers to Les Mis, I'm still trying to get a grasp of what I'm doing. Also wanted the actual first chapter of this to be up for Valentine's Day, which is tomorrow!! 
> 
> On a completely unrelated note, does anyone else feel like [this vine](https://vine.co/v/i1XK0aAO3de) hits too close to home because I kid you not this is me with my mum basically every day, no joke.

Grantaire opens the sketchbook gingerly, as if it were going to bite him for abandoning it for so long. 

He studies the cafe for a subject, sifting through the regulars he often gives a nod to in greeting, to the sickeningly sweet couples, to the new hipsters who think they're so "cool and edgy" to have found such a hole in the wall coffee shop, never mind that this particular hole in the wall was very well known. 

His eyes finally land on the barista on-shift, the girl who always gives him -and everyone, for that matter- a cheery hello paired with a dazzlingly bright smile. But Grantaire knows those eyes - could spot them anywhere, the familiar emptiness that holds a million different stories. 

He begins with the face, hands flying over the paper in a practiced ease that he didn't think would come back to him so quickly. It's rounded, a soft jawline that contradicts the harshness of her eyes; brings out an odd, misplaced youth. 

He starts in on the eyes after that, trying to replicate the depth of colour with the shabby little pencil he'd found under his bed. It's hard though, a rare brown like something out of the depths of a forest; one where you'd find little woodland creatures and nymphs. 

Grantaire shakes his head. For crying out loud, he's 18, not 8. He should know by now that woodland creatures aren't actually a thing.

Pencil back on the paper, he realises belatedly that the girl's eyelashes slant down, letting out a silent curse.

He squints ever so slightly in an effort to be discreet, then returns to the page before him to frame the large round eyes. The eyelashes are long, thick. A shield, per se, from the outside world, though not a good one, from what Grantaire can discern from her vacant eyes. 

The girl blinks often, he thinks, in a meeting of eyelashes not unlike that of a Venus Flytrap, every so often brushing the tops of her cheeks. For a moment he happens upon the thought that perhaps she is blinking so much because she's aware of him sketching her, but then she's finished another rushed businessman's order and has that hollow smile plastered to her face again. 

He takes a sip of his half-forgotten coffee, waiting for that smile to disappear. She's better off without it, if he's to be honest. Customer service, he gets it, but he wishes to see nothing but a genuine smile on she face. He ponders, if only for a moment, how he could get her to smile, then wonders when on earth he had gotten so entranced by the girl. 

He doesn't know what it is. She just seems trustworthy, like a good friend you'd want to keep close. 

She never wears a name badge, he notices when his pencil sketches down her body, following the curve of her arms as she prepares a sugary monstrosity that doesn’t have the right to be called a coffee. 

In fact, in all the six months he’s been frequenting the cafe, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard her name before. 

Grantaire is focusing on the thick black curls that hang just below the girl’s shoulders when his phone screams obnoxiously from his backpack. 

He barely gets half way through a greeting before his mother’s screaming down the line.

“Where the bloody hell are you? Your uncle’s…” 

Grantaire places the phone on his desk, making random affirmative noises when he can to assure his mother that he’s definitely listening. 

“…and your father has been…” 

He rolls his eyes, but he's nonetheless out the door in seconds, racing home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, [Raveen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ciswave)'s father, I will never forget that afternoon in year 8... "WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU?!?!" In fact, it's almost funny, now that I think about it, that was after a strings rehearsal.
> 
> A special thanks must go to [Pan](http://crispisch.tumblr.com/) and [Bok Choi](http://shouty-poles.tumblr.com/) for the pot of gold that was "venus flytrap eyelashes", I have never been more grateful that someone took the time to stare at my eyelashes during class. 
> 
> (And no, the person Grantaire is drawing is not me, it's a mix of numerous people I know, which yes does include my own eyelashes.)


	2. Viva la Timpani

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pieces mentioned in this chapter are not real, however are ideas derived from many different pieces, including [Celtic Air and Dance by Michael Sweeney](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8KyqQpIDD8) ~~(DO YOU REMEMBER PLAYING THIS 3 YEARS AGO?)~~ and [ Arabian Dances by Brian Balmages](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCSQfmC-BWI) ~~(DON'T EVEN TALK TO ME ABOUT THAT ENDING)~~. 
> 
> Also a big thank you goes out to [Karen](http://kazaraiel.tumblr.com/), who helped me collate all of our band memories, and to the numerous band conductors who have become inspiration for the endless lines that this conductor screams at her students.

Hair a frazzle, uniform unkempt, stick bag only half zipped, music unordered and… 

he’s late for rehearsal.

Not that that’s new. 

(Besides, he's honestly not to blame? Who puts rehearsal on at seven in the morning?) 

“Now I was going to say I want more timpani in Bar 21 but I can’t because _Grantaire’s not here_!” the conductor yells pointedly at the empty spot in the corner of the percussion section. 

“Sorry miss, the bus was delayed.” 

“I’m sure, Grantaire,” the conductor dismisses him with a disbelieving tone and a raised eyebrow, picking up her baton once more. “Flutes, Clarinets, bar 18. You cannot rush these hemidemisemiquavers! This is your solo, no one else is playing here!” 

“Timpani no! That’s syn-co-pa tika-tika ti-tika!” 

“Snare off! This isn’t a fanfare!”

“Trumpets there are six of you and you’re being drowned out by saxophones!”

“More Bari, you have the most important part here!”

“Percussion look up, you’re not in time with me!”

“No, timpani, that’s not the rhythm!” 

“I’m pretty sure the music says bongos not congas!”

“Who’s playing the horn cue? Tenor that’s you!” 

“Second clarinets you’re not the melody! Go away!”

“I need to hear those bell tones, trombones, I want space between those crotchets!” 

“Timpani you’re not in time!” 

“Flutes those runs are sloppy!”

“Phrasing, clarinets! You cannot breathe there!”

“Timpani that’s a fortepiano with a crescendo not a subito piano!”

“Bass drum I want that beat to rattle in my chest it’s supposed to be sforzando!” 

“Trumpets, no no no!”

“Cut common time, read your time signatures, clarinets you’re late!”

“B natural flutes! Did you even bother looking at the key change?”

“Oboe louder, there’s two of you for once!” 

“Gong look up, you missed your cue!” 

(Read: As being the timpani part of a three-movement piece, Grantaire was exhausted, and definitely not keen on turning up to the next rehearsal. And to think, he could've been going on a breakfast Macca's run with Éponine if he hadn't chosen to audition for a band. Celtic Queen Glass Farewell Mourning Storm something or rather? Sign him the hell _out_.) 

“Five minute toilet break and then we’re back for Russian Dance,” the conductor announced, over half of the band racing out the door for the bubblers in desperate attempts of relieving themselves of their burning lungs. 

But what can anyone say? The Celtic Queen was a menace who liked to present her people with long beautiful phrases with nowhere to breathe. 

 

In the time that everyone had taken to get themselves a drink, Grantaire had retrieved his sketchbook and was resting his elbows on the timpani while finishing the details of yesterday's barista's shirt when he heard a pop, followed by a clunk. 

His head snapped up just in time for a shrill "Grantaire, did you just break the timpani?" 

But before he could answer, the words were followed by: " _Again_ _?_ "

Which really, that woman was being wholly unreasonable, because the last time he broke the timpani, they were due in for another timpani after 25 years with the same one anyway, and he'd only hit harder, just like she'd asked him to do, with the specific words "I want the timpani part to resonate within the bones of the back row of the audience". 

He tries to hide the sketchbook with haste, setting the pencil back on his music stand, and he bites down on his tongue hard before he says something stupid, like "that was actually your fault" or "then stop giving me timpani parts it's been 8 months since I got snare" or "at least I didn't lose a mallet down the drain like Azelma" or even "I didn't do it", which he clearly did. 

Instead, he expertly allows his mouth to form the words "I'm sorry, ma'am." 

"We just got a new one, Grantaire," the conductor sighs, shaking her head. "We'll take a look at it after rehearsal. You're lucky Russian Dance doesn't have a timpani part." 

With that, Grantaire picks up his music and heads for the vibraphone, determined to  _not_ break this instrument. 

(In case you may be wondering, he's successful, and the vibraphone stays in one piece. Well, not in one piece, because the instrument itself is comprised of many different small pieces, but that's not the point. The point is that Grantaire didn't break it.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What even was that it was literally just the conductor screaming at the band.


	3. Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well that sounds horribly idealistic," someone scoffs from the back. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Someone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm. This wasn't written well at all. But it's just procrastination from doing my English, so what more can you expect? Views of this work are greatly appreciated, as are kudos and comments!

Enjolras shouldn't be nervous. For God's sake he's _Enjolras_ , he doesn't get nervous. 

He even got permission from the director of co-curricular music, Mr. Shizuka, to come in and recruit members from the band for his new radical. 

He's grateful, really, that Mr. Shizuka looked remotely supportive of Enjolras' idea (unlike the many upturned noses he'd gotten previously, but he's not pointing fingers ~~_Mrs. Chamberlain_~~ ), and besides, he's got plenty of his own friends in the band; that alone should be enough of a reason for him to not be nervous at all.  

But he takes one step into the band room and is immediately reminded of why his heart is beating itself out of his chest when he catches sight of that unruly brown hair at the back of the room. 

Shit. Shit.  _Shit._

Because there he is, in all of his stupid freaking glory, twirling a mallet between his fingers and stifling a yawn behind his other hand. 

It might seem incredulous to the outside person who is watching _Enjolras: fearless leader for the new world_ , crumble at the sight of _Grantaire: antagonistic arsehole with a tendency to piss aforementioned boy off_. But that's exactly how it's always been. 

Here's this little blonde pre-teen in year six, snarling at the boy before him as they debate the range of foods sold in the tuckshop like no one's business, and God, all Enjolras had ever wanted to do was like... hold his hand or something, but instead they're screaming in each other's faces, and boy does the mop of brown hair hate him, it's just as well they hadn't known each other since Prep because they surely would've killed each other before they even got to double digits but _oh_ , the way Enjolras's heart snapped clean in half when Grantaire found out they'd be going to the same high school because that look of complete and utter disgust was just something he could never forget, never mind it was six years ago- 

Wait, wasn't Enjolras here to say something to the band? 

Oh right, the recruitment. 

"We've invited Enjolras here to our rehearsal to speak to you all about something," the conductor waves her baton in the general direction of the boy, stepping down from her small podium. 

"Morning everyone," Enjolras clears his throat, mustering up a small smile. "As some of you in this band may know, I'm starting a new collective on Thursday lunchtimes. We seek to aid the world in becoming a better place for everyone, no matter what, and-"

"Well that sounds horribly idealistic," someone scoffs from the back. 

_Someone._

"Yes R, which would be why we have the meetings, to solidify ideas," Enjolras snaps back immediately, before he can even catch himself on the nickname. 

He carries on passionately for quite some time after that, fuelled on by one: the little shit in the percussion section  _still_ twirling his Goddamn mallet and two: the reassuring nods he was receiving from his best friends. 

He was really appreciative of that, how Courf's curls jiggled as he grinned up at him from the second row of the never-ending flute section, and how Ferre seemed to be gripping his clarinet tighter and tighter as he nodded his head along to Enjolras's words. 

"Thank you, and I hope to see you at Thursday lunch in room 202 of the ABC." 

Enjolras ducks his head as he steps off the podium, smiling to himself. If things go the way he has planned in his head, he'll have a group in no time at all. There's still the Wednesday afternoon orchestra he'd like to recruit from, and a couple of other extra-curricular clubs that seem like they have members who could be interested. Not to mention the posters he's stuck all over the school. 

He'll have to thank Jehan for that sometime late- oh damn, he should've mentioned something about Jehan designing the posters hanging up around the school for him before, the boy was literally sitting right smack bang in front of him in the oboe section mere seconds ago. But oh well, that's nothing to be dwelled on, he can do it tomorrow before school. 

 

He's proud, he thinks, when he passes one of the posters. It's a vibrant red, and the letters are black and bold in the centre of the page, although it could deal with a few less flowers than are on the page (three). "Meetings at lunch time in 202 of the Alice Buchanan Centre on Thursdays!" it says, just underneath the blossoming petals of a Protea that curls itself around the words " _Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité_ ". 

He can't wait for Thursday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Shizuka is literally just a joke with myself because like, shizuka is quiet in Japanese? So like, the director of music has a dynamic as his surname? Get it? I'm horrible why do people let me live.


	4. Maths: Mental Abuse to Humans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Literally I'm just trying to sort out my head with these kids being in a school in Australia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can see my three years of French really come into play in this chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (Yes Karen, your words from today have been directly quoted into this chapter, as they seem to quite often be.)

“For crying out loud, can someone just up and kill me? _Please_?” Grantaire groans, flopping down at the lunch table. 

“Let me guess - is it Physics? It’s always Physics,” says Bahorel, over a questionable can of tuna.

“Which is exactly why I didn’t choose Physics, my boy.” Grantaire sighs, looking forlorn. “I just finished a Maths C double, Bahorel. And I’ve got Maths B after lunch! How much worse could life honestly get?” 

“I still don’t know why you chose that.”

“I don’t either!”

“You could drop the subject if you were really that desperate,” Éponine says coolly, lunchbox in hand. 

“I wish I chose Maths A,” he pouts.

“We all do,” they chorus, staring mournfully at their timetables. If only, back in Year 10, they had been smart enough to not scorn Maths A and overlook it as an easy subject. Now, it was all they ever wished for. Alas, they must walk the paths they have chosen, so they bear the pain in relative silence, with complaints sailing through three to four times a week at least. 

 -«•»-

Grantaire’s days consist of the following subjects:

  * Art
  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * Mathematics C
  * Chemistry 
  * French 



And don’t even _try_  to ask him why he chose the subjects he did. Art was a given, and English was compulsory, but Mathematics _C_ , Grantaire? What was he thinking? Maths B sure, at least that was a prerequisite for a lot of things but that darned Maths C was an honest waste of time because seriously, prove that the eigenvalues of the matrix what the what now? Chemistry whatever, it’s kind of fun, and he is really _really_  good at French (hon hon je suis baguette je me douche), and yet still, _MATHEMATICS C_?!?

Grantaire is only partially relieved that he wasn’t quite as stupid as Combeferre had been during their senior subject selection stages. The idiot decided to take the Suicide Six. And why? “Just because.” But really Combeferre, no one just up and signs themselves in for the Suicide Six  _just because_. 

Jehan on the other hand has a sprightly rendition of Grantaire’s despair, in an array of subjects that could only be described as being purely Jehan, and comprising entirely of the arts, disregarding the compulsory:

  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * Drama
  * Art
  * Music 
  * Information Technology Systems  



Courfeyrac’s subjects are reasonable, a well-balanced timetable of the following:

  * English 
  * Mathematics B
  * Chemistry
  * Modern History 
  * Drama
  * Health and Physical Education 



And while Grantaire would never admit it, he has Enjolras’s entire timetable committed to heart, of which his subjects consist of:

  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * Economics
  * Modern History
  * Latin 
  * Ancient History



Éponine likes to spend her days mourning over her decision to take Study of Religion, and Bahorel skilfully convinced the teacher he should drop Accounting, so often he boasts his free period of goofing around in the library. Feuilly Master of Languages legitimately takes French, Latin, Spanish and Chinese, and Bossuet stumbles his way around German (and bless the lord he didn’t take Chemistry else he would’ve burnt off an arm by now), while Joly balances a plate of subjects much like Courfeyrac’s, minus the sport, because no one likes sport. 

And so the group bumbles along, Gavroche and Azelma groaning about their workload (oh honey, you’ve got a storm coming), and Musichetta rues the day she decided she wouldn’t drop out of school for an apprenticeship because " _for Heaven’s sake I could’ve been a professional hairdresser by now_ ", and so on and so forth for the rest of them. 

-«•»-

"My arse is burning holy shit," Courfeyrac springs up from his chair before he's even really sat in it. 

"Well I mean it's a pretty nice arse but I wouldn't go so far as  _burning_ ," Grantaire shrugs.

In response he only receives a roll of the eyes, as Courfeyrac tries to shuffle himself into the shade, rather than directly under the golden rays of the Australian sun, because someone (yes, that's Courfeyrac) forgot to slip, slop, slap this morning. 

"Sun safety first!" he jeers in a tone that mocks a typical teacher. "Always remember your hat and sunscreen!" He drops the voice, snarling. "Then why don't you provide us with actual freaking umbrellas when you know our tables are right underneath the sun!" 

"You know that's a fair argument we could take to the principal," Enjolras says, striding over to the table. 

"Getting ahead of ourselves, are we? Student Council first, and then principal," Combeferre places a hand on Enjolras's shoulder, as if the action would settle the boy's constantly bursting thoughts. 

Enjolras places himself in the spot farthest away from Grantaire (just as he always does, R sighs internally), who's wedged between Éponine and Joly in an uncomfortable meeting of sweaty extremities. 

(It sounds disgusting, yes, but the word "summer" doesn't even begin to describe the season they were currently experiencing.) 

  

Grantaire pushes aside any thoughts of Enjolras for the time being, instead taking to watching his current favourite lunch-time show: The Courferre Struggle - the title's a work in progress. 

Despite both being Enjolras' best friends, the two are constantly bickering, always at a rivalry. 

In a way, it is not unlike himself with the leader, Grantaire thinks, except that Combeferre and Courfeyrac are very  _very_ different from him and Enjolras. 

"Who even created the piccolo. It's a disgrace to mankind's ears," Combeferre sniggers. 

"I don't know if you've ever heard of a soprano clarinet before? Not much better." 

Grantaire supposes they're just sworn enemies; it's the fate you're tied to when one is a flautist and the other is a clarinetist. 

 

"Hey," Éponine nudges him just before the bell's about to ring, distracting him from the show. "You still up for taking care of the ankle biters tonight?" 

He shakes his head, a small smile on his face. "Of course I'll babysi-," he stops himself, just in case Gavroche pops up to scold him about calling him a baby. "-look after Gav and Zelma. I promised, didn't I? Don't keep Parnasse waiting this afternoon. He may be something of a friend but he's one hell of a scary boss." 

With a pat on the head as a reward, Grantaire stands up for 5th period. 

_Maths B._

Honestly, he could cry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter I mainly wanted to use as a little base lining for the characters in regards to Australian schools. To be honest, it’s still probably not going to be very accurate; every school is different, and I go to an all-girls, while the one in the story is co-ed. 
> 
> The way it works (as far as I know) is that Junior School is Prep to Year 6, and then Senior is Years 7 to 12. In my state, we graduate at 17, but in the story I’ve made it 18, because I know my state is weird af. Other than that though, I’ll be following what happens at my school, which includes the range of subjects to select from. 
> 
> Most of the subjects I imagine are pretty self-explanatory, but the way it goes once you get to the senior part of senior school (year 11 and 12) you have six subjects, with English being the compulsory, along with at least one mathematics subject. I’ll also say that Information Technology Systems (ITS) is all your computer stuff, creating websites and apps and all that, in case it wasn’t clear. 
> 
> The Suicide Six, you may be questioning, is a legitimate naming of someone who takes all 3 Sciences (Chemistry, Biology, Physics), Maths B, Maths C and English. It's not for the weak at heart. 
> 
> The Mathematics system I believe requires some explaining, so I’ll get to that as well.
> 
>   * So Maths A. It’s known as the “easy” maths and is often looked down upon, but to be honest I sometimes regret not choosing it because it legitimately seems _useful_. 
>   * Maths B! It’s the standard maths, all that stuff that you know you’re never going to use once you get out of school but you have to learn it anyway.
>   * And the ever-wonderful Maths C. It’s kind of like recreational maths. Stuff that’s “interesting” but you ain’t never gonna need to actually know. 
>   * You can take Maths A by itself, and you can take Maths B by itself, but to take Maths C you need to be doing Maths B.
> 

> 
> The Amis and co are in Year 12, the last year of schooling, and Gavroche I believe to be in Year 7, while Azelma is in Year 8. I think that’s all.
> 
> I hope this helped, even if you're from my state, things change from school to school as well, so... yeah!  
> If you have any other questions, I’ll add to the notes of this chapter!


	5. As Simple As do re mi, A B C, 1 2 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting in room 202 of the ABC, and the gruelling band rehearsal that follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, thanks for reading this :3
> 
> Turns out my friend Maya made us all an E/R mix so go listen to it right [here](https://8tracks.com/wxnderlustinqs/p-e-r-m-e-t-s-t-u), although I'm very sorry for any of you guys outside of the US or Canada like myself, because 8tracks has become a little... restricting.

"I can't think of a more fitting place to hold the meeting than right here in this very building," Enjolras starts, looking over at the turnout of the meeting. It's pretty good, if he does say so himself. "The Alice Buchanan Centre, as I'm sure you're all aware, was built in 1956, and was named after our very first lady principal. I say this is a fitting place for our meetings because Alice Buchanan is the paragon of change for the better in our school, and that's what we as a team hope to bring." 

He's standing next to the whiteboard, his friends taking the seats at the front of the classroom as the members of the new committee scatter themselves around the various seats in the room. Enjolras pointedly doesn't notice how Grantaire saunters in and takes his own seat in the far right hand corner, instead turning to Combeferre. 

"Now Combeferre here has collected some data for us to evaluate what cause we should focus on supporting this term." 

"Afternoon everyone, I'm Combeferre," the boy in question rises, pushing his glasses up his nose as he goes. He pulls up a powerpoint and takes Enjolras' place at the front. 

"It's not very hard to find a worthy cause. In fact, we've come to a point where there are simply too many injustices in the world for us to fight for. As a privileged cohort that receives many a thing that others cannot every day, it's our job to use our education to choose a cause to bring to light. We've taken the liberty to narrow the choices down, seeing as I have no doubt we could end up debating over which cause to follow for the rest of the year. It already took us a month to narrow the list down in the first place, so uh, without any further ado," Ferre clicks to the next slide on his powerpoint.

"We'll be asking you to put your preferences in order from one to ten, and placing them in this box," Enjolras stands up once more to show a cardboard box. "The cause will be revealed in our meeting next week." 

 

Grantaire bites his tongue on a spiel of comments for the whole meeting, surprised he was able to hold on for so long. But when everyone's left and he's still sitting in his chair doodling on the ballot paper yet to decide which cause deserves the spot of number one, he can't help but say _something_. 

"Nice work, Apollo." 

Well that's... that's not exactly what- like, he did do a good job, most of the new members at the meeting looked like they'd be coming back but... he isn't- Grantaire isn't the sort of person to exactly compliment Enjolras on stuff like that, and he wasn't supposed to say that out  _loud_ , for Christ's sake. 

"Don't mock me now, I pray," Enjolras snarls in response, gathering his belongings. 

"Am I not allowed to be genuinely impressed?" he can't help but retort.

"You are not impressed by anything," Enjolras says tartly. "Besides, the sarcasm is thick enough in your voice to slice through with a sword." 

"Believe what you like," Grantaire shrugs, slipping his piece of paper into the ballot box and walking off for 5th period. 

If he's lucky, it'll be Art. But chances are he's got English, or worse,

_Maths._

-«•»-

They have band rehearsal again that afternoon, much to Grantaire's dismay. 

Chetta ditches, in true Musichetta fashion, storing her saxophone away in the storage room and strolling off with a lollypop hanging from her lips. 

The sound Bossuet makes when he makes his way down to find Musichetta long gone is far from respectable. 

"What, so she doesn't feel like band so she just chucks a sickie?" he says, on the borderline of disgusted. 

"Said she needed some gal time with Ponine," Grantaire throws over his shoulder. 

"She didn't think of doing that after 5? You know, when rehearsal's over?"

"We can scold her tomorrow," Joly murmurs in what he hopes is comfort, dragging Bossuet out of his petulant display of disdain. 

 

They're early to rehearsal for once, setting up their instruments and tuning up before going to their seats. They could almost make a band just within their own friendship group, if they had someone to conduct them. 

Grantaire thinks had Enjolras taken any interest in music, he would make a respectable conductor. But that's as much an unlikely story as dinosaurs coming back to roam the earth. 

He looks around the room to his friends, wondering how it is they all happened to end up here.

Combeferre, from his esteemed spot as first clarinet warms up with some jaunty adaptations of scales (the kind that composers think will make practicing your scales "interesting", note the quotation marks), glasses slowly finding their way down his nose in the process. 

Courfeyrac sits across from him, the sole piccolo player of the band, and a strong second flute amongst three rows of companions. It's just something about high schools and always, without fail, having too many flutes. 

Jehan is between them, preparing his reed with complete and utter concentration, save for the few faces he looks up to make at Marius, who struggles to get the strap of his bassoon beneath him. He can only play what Grantaire assumes to be as approximately three notes on the thing, but in bassoon world it turns out to be that's what they call pure talent. 

Feuilly purses his lips for his french horn, his neon green mouth piece glaring holes into Grantaire's eyes. He gets that Bahorel dared him into it, but was such a daring colour necessary? It clashes with the school uniform. 

Speaking of Bahorel, the boy shuffles up the steps to his seat with his tuba in hand, swerving around his friends-turned-enemies of the euphonium section. They seem to have never gotten over the fact that Bahorel switched instruments, never mind that they were both exceedingly similar. (Or maybe they weren't, and Grantaire's being an undereducated arsehole even though he's in a band himself.)

He hears a horse whinny from the trumpet section, and snaps his head around to find a joyous Joly pumping a fist in the air in triumph. It's funny how he plays the trumpet, despite his constant worries that performing on such an instrument would collapse his lungs. However the fanfare he enjoys too much to ever consider discontinuing rehearsals. 

Cosette walks in at that moment, and despite her seemingly dainty nature, she wields a... oh right, Grantaire keeps forgetting she no longer plays the trombone. It had always seemed so odd on her - unfitting, but somehow he can't get it into his mind that she now plays the bass clarinet. He notices later how much closer the seating of the bass clarinet is to the bassoon in comparison to the trombone. 

Grantaire looks at his own section last, the bumbling mess that will forever be every percussion section in any high school band. Bossuet seats himself gingerly beside the tubular bells lest he trip and break something. He hasn't the heart to pay for another damaged instrument.

Last to come in is Azelma, small hands folded around her music folder. By the inappropriate drawings that climb up her arm in the distinctly bold strokes of a permanent marker, Grantaire can only guess she'd been forced into becoming Gavroche's canvas. And now that was one boy that was too restless to sit for even two seconds. None of them could wait for him to finally grow up and lose all his energy to high school. Not that that was a good thing per se, just that the twelve-year-old constantly bubbled with an envious amount of vigour that no one else seemed to be able to reciprocate. 

It's almost just as well that Gavroche  _isn't_ in a band, because he can just picture it: that obnoxiously loud bastard that can be heard over the entire band despite the composition saying piano. They already have one of those, and he goes by the name Mykynliegh (pronounced like Mackinley, if you may have needed clarification), and he's a bad as bad gets. 

"Alright let's start with some power warm-ups!" the conductor marches in, setting up her music on her stand and brandishing her baton. 

"Concert B flat," she reminds them, counting the band in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaat... I didn't quote Les Mis in a Les Mis fic...?
> 
> Sorry for the cruel bassoon joke, but I literally stole it off a bassoonist(/violist, yes that's you [Cheese](http://icertainlyelephant.tumblr.com/))
> 
> Chapter title from Jackson 5's ABC, btw.


	6. The Courferre Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group dynamic has always been odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say your thank you's to [Emily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/feuillyish) for helping me out with the whereabouts of this chapter, and I'm sorry it's come out later than I'd hoped. School, as always, takes a first, and this is just a reward for finally finishing the final draft of my English speech. 
> 
> Not actually beta'd or proofread, so sorry about that.

The group dynamic has always been odd; a strange gathering of people who could probably have dealt with not sitting with each other, but for some unknown reason have congregated together as one large crowd of teenagers. 

Among them, there’s the triumvirate, golden boy Enjolras standing as the leader, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre by his side. 

But it’s a little more complicated than that. In fact one could say it’s _much_  more complicated.

Because The Centre and The Guide absolutely _loathe_  each other, and if it weren’t for Enjolras they probably would have stormed off in opposite directions long ago. 

Except that they wouldn’t have, because Grantaire’s an expert in this area, knows the way their eyes travel (eyes, eyes, it’s always the eyes) and they’re right smack bang in the middle of a pool of love. 

Well, that isn't exactly a very nice description, but you can’t blame Grantaire for not being an A+ student in English. 

Now, Grantaire would grace you with an explanation of the rest of the small groupings that make his lunch table, he really would, but they’re not so important right now, because The Courferre Struggle is back on live right now, and he’s too invested in watching that while munching on a limp burrito that the tuckshop threw together. 

At least it’s not like the sushi he bought last week. He could’ve sworn that was a _cat hair_  he saw in there. 

Needless to say he’s not going to buy one of those again. 

 

“Aww, thanks baby!” Courfeyrac binds a girl in a tight hug, holding a bag of sandwiches. “You are the absolute best of the best.” He presses a quick kiss to the girl’s cheek - Grantaire’s pretty sure she’s in his French class - and looks at the sandwiches in his hand. “These look amazing.” 

It’s then that Grantaire hears a deep sigh from his approximate left, and he turns to see Combeferre resolutely not (really, he’s not) looking at Courfeyrac, tearing through a container of Jatz. 

“How’re you fairing, Ferre?” Grantaire asks him, just because he’s a little shit.

“How do you mean?” comes his curt response as he bites into another cracker. 

“Oh you know, just heard a huge sigh.”

“Physics’s just been having at me, you know?” the boy deflects after a moment’s pause. 

“10 minute oral presentation, right? Man it’s Science, why the hell are you guys doing speeches?” 

“Beats me, R.”

His mind’s off of Courfeyrac now, his cracker-eating less aggressive as he reaches for his water bottle, though the swig he takes from it could almost be described as reckless. 

“D’you ever regret choosing the suicide six?” Grantaire asks, because seriously, he’s pondered upon the question for quite a while. 

“Not really? I would’ve loved to be able to take more subjects, really.” 

“You would,” Grantaire rolls his eyes, but it’s good-natured. 

“Grantaire, my darling!” Courfeyrac grins, arms draping over the boy, having finished thanking the girl for the sandwiches. “Those cookies look _really_  good.” 

“Yes you can have one Courf,” R sighs back, holding up a cookie, but he doesn’t miss the way Combeferre tenses up beside him.

Courfeyrac takes the cookie with a wild smile on his face, then turning to Combeferre. “Wanna share it, Ferre?” 

“I’m alright without your germs,” the boy replies rather harshly, but the expression on his face shows even he’s surprised with how the words came out. 

But what’s even more surprising is the response that comes out of Courfeyrac. Funny, bright, light-hearted Courfeyrac. Who visibly snaps in half and throws his lunch onto the table.

“What’s your problem, _Combeferre_?” he says, lips curling around the name. “No seriously, what the actual hell is your problem?” 

“My problem is you,” Ferre says. He’s regretting his previous words, no doubt, but he’s too stubborn to back down now, a trait that the two fighting boys have caught from spending too much time with Enjolras.

“How so? I mean, I’m not sure if you’ve grasped the concept of this, but I was trying to be nice.” 

“You have no idea do you.” 

Grantaire is entranced by the encounter, it’s a thrilling scene, but he can’t help but feel sitting in between them is only going to lead to his demise. They’re spitting fire at each other, and he’s starting to get the idea that at some point he’s gonna get burned. The shouting continues, and by now their entire table is silent except for Combeferre and Courfeyrac. 

“What’s so wrong with me that you can’t seem to act normal around me?” 

Rather than being spat out, the question is small, weak. 

Whatever words were on Courfeyrac’s tongue die out, and he’s left standing there helplessly. 

“What?” 

“Did I ever do you wrong when we met?” 

It’s that moment that as much as Grantaire adores watching The Courferre Struggle, he probably should take his leave. So he catches the attention of the rest of the table, and they sneak their way around the two.

-«•»-

You’d think, that after all that, there would be some sort of reconciliation, the two would be friends, but just their luck, it made matters worse. 

“F-” 

“Language,” Enjolras cuts in speedily, giving Grantaire a square look. 

“Well bejeezus, you don’t know I was going to say the ‘f-word’,” Grantaire says.

He gets The Glare (the one that speaks more than any words would that Grantaire has a knack for pulling out of Enjolras), and pouts. 

"Fine, frack it all they're giving each other the silent treatment." 

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac?"

"Who else, 'jolras?"

They sit in silence for a while, until Enjolras opens his mouth again. 

“I don’t like it,” he says, sullen.

“Of course you don’t, they’re your best friends.” And for once Grantaire manages to say it in sympathy. 

When there’s no response, he continues. “If you want, I can use my cunning flare to trick them into making amends?”

“You make the act sound so devious. Besides, I can’t make you do that for me.” 

“Oh please,” says Grantaire, but he stops himself before he can say something like _I’d do anything for you_.

“We could… do it together?” comes Enjolras’s suggestion. “Stop looking at me like I’ve grown four extra heads, I want my best friends to stop giving each other the silent treatment, and they’re your friends too. It’s a legitimate question,” he snaps immediately after he’s said the words, because God on high, why on Earth would he _ever_  intentionally put himself in a situation where he would have to spend time with Grantaire of all people?

"We can do that," Grantaire forces himself to reply evenly, leaning back. 

The string of swears that follow those words stay contained within his head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That cat hair story (well maybe it was human but it _looked_ like a cat's, aight) was 100% true just ask Raveen or Rianna, they can confirm.


	7. These are a Few of my Most Hated Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, what could be concluded from today’s rehearsal was:
> 
>   1. Ferre hates Courf
>   2. Everyone has ridiculous names (That's  _you_ Herbert and Cecily)
>   3. Never trust the McLeod twins
>   4. and oh crap now he’s missed _his_  solo and the conductor is glaring at him abort, abort, abort!! 
> 


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the updates are coming a little slow, it's peak assessment time.  
> Everyone say thank you to [Raveen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ciswave) for betaing for me in this busy exam period!

“Look flutes, I get that the notes are really high for you, but we can’t have you overpowering the brass when it’s their melody! So what do you say we have every second person going the octave down, alright? So the pattern goes high, low, high, low, high, low…”

Courfeyrac turns to the girl beside him, pulling a face. “Did I just get high?”

“Yep.”

“Ugh,” he replies, and then promptly begins giggling after realising what he’d just said.

“That just sounded like I got… high.”

“Uh, yeah, you did. You’re playing the octave up?” the girl responds, not having noticed the double meaning of Courf’s words.

“No I meant as in, _high_  high. As in… that high.” 

“I don’t get what you mean, Courfeyrac, you’re going to have to elaborate.” 

“You know, as in drugs high!” 

“You’re such an idiot,” the girl rolls her eyes, but she has a smile on her face. 

From across the room though, Combeferre is not amused. And by not amused, he’s glaring daggers into the girl sitting beside Courfeyrac.  _Cecily_  he scorns in his mind. What kind of a name was Cecily in the 21st Century anyway? From behind him, Combeferre hears a defeated sigh, and he turns around to find Niamh with her elbows on her knees, clarinet swinging between her legs as her eyes desperately try to avert Cecily. And like as if Enjolras's pining and whining over Grantaire wasn't enough in Ferre's life, Niamh constantly harboured heart-eyes for Cecily; something that he got to witness twice a week for an entire year. 

"God knows what you see in her," Ferre almost mutters aloud to the girl, but no, he was above being petty just because Cecily was friendly with his own crush. 

Wait- did he just say  _crush_? Oh no no no, he'd meant to say  _nemesis_. Ferre hated Courf.

He’s spent his entire life hating Courf. Yes. Hating. 

For example, he hates that fluffy hair that sits atop Courfeyrac's head, soft like fairy floss or clouds or some other rainbow unicorn shit that Combeferre panicked over when he accidentally brushed against it some time back three years ago. 

Another example, in that soft Irish accent that takes to the ends of his sentences when he's tired; Combeferre _detests_  that. Or more so he hates Courfeyrac’s uncle, who gave that accent to him. What a dick. 

And the way he always rubs at his eyes like a sleepy little kitten is purely disdainful! Doesn't the boy have any self-respect? 

Not to mention the awkward dance move he always does when he's trying to stop himself from putting his hands in his pockets. (Yes, Courfeyrac has gotten a detention for being caught with his hands in his pockets 5 times. And by the same damn teacher.) 

_These are a few of my favour-_  Combeferre stops his thoughts, clearing his throat. _most hated things._

“Are you singing under your breath?” Herbert nudges him with his sports shoe, Combeferre noting that he is not in his formal school uniform and should technically be in detention, before coming to the sudden realisation that perhaps his thoughts weren’t internal at all. 

“How much did you hear?”

“Ah, no’ much mate, nothing to worry about,” the boy shrugs.

“McLeod, you answer me right now,” Combeferre uses his stern voice. 

“Chill, dude. Just heard some good old Sound of Music coming from your way,” Herb says.

Now Ferre would trust his word, except that he most certainly wouldn’t, because if there ever was an untrustworthy person in the school, it was Herbert McLeod. Because first of all, what kind of a name was Herbert, and second of all, he was  _always_ up to no good with his twin brother Albert, who is, at the current moment, being grilled by the conductor as he botches up the tenor sax solo yet again. 

Basically, what could be concluded from today’s rehearsal was:

  1. Ferre hates Courf
  2. Everyone has ridiculous names (That's  _you_ Herbert and Cecily)
  3. Never trust the McLeod twins
  4. and oh crap now he’s missed _his_  solo and the conductor is glaring at him abort, abort, abort!! 



“Sorry Miss, I just miscounted the rests,” Combeferre ducks his head. He can’t believe he let his thoughts distract him so much. 

“That’s not good enough Combeferre, the competition is coming up soon,” she tuts, but turns her attention to the God-awful (sorry Joly) trumpet section anyway, sighing as she goes. 

"Now I don't know if I have another copy of this piece in my score, but I'm pretty sure that every single one of those notes had staccatos, trumpets. Is that right?"

"Yes ma'am," Joly mumbles, his trademark crease appearing between his eyebrows. 

"What was that? You  _do_ have staccatos?" 

The trumpet section nods dumbly, each head bopping slightly out of time with the other. 

"Well then, that would have to be a dot, dot, dot, dot, doo da! Not da, da, da, da, doo da," she articulates. 

The rehearsal goes smoothly until the conductor calls for the band to pull out one particular song they'd all hoped she'd forgotten about. It had been abandoned for about a month or so, and for a good reason too. 

"That's not the rhythm, marimba! Caterpillar, caterpillar, caterpillar. Come on, everyone say it with me, you've got this rhythm somewhere in the piece!" she yells, and now that's quite the sight isn't it, a room full of teenagers sitting in chairs chanting 'caterpillar, caterpillar, caterpillar, caterpillar' together. 

It's now that Bahorel suddenly understands why everyone calls band people nerds. 

(Not even in Biology would you have an entire class chanting insect names in a frankly demonic manner.) 

The conductor waves her baton to bring the room to a silence, then looks at the flutes. "Now flutes, this is a beautiful melody but that timing, you're not getting it right at all!" 

(Uh no duh, maybe that's because the piece is really freaking hard?) 

"Here try this," she clears her throat, and begins to sing. "Give me cho-co-late ice cream, give me cho-co-late ice cream  _now_! Before I get all vio-lent and  _an_ gry." 

Courfeyrac sort of gapes blankly at his conductor, before being asked to sing along with her. 

It's quite the experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Mr. Z (and that past student of yours who made the words up) for the "give me chocolate ice cream", good strings memories last year... (And yes, I did not make any of that up, it's totally 100% real ask anyone who was in my orchestra last year. The things musicians do to get the rhythm right...)


	8. Operation Moth-erf*cker and the CourfMeister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the matchmaking commences.  
> Or tries to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My head's in a bit of a mess because when I started I wasn't going to give this thing a specific time period other than Modern era, but well... now I'm rolling it along with my own school schedule so we'll see how that goes for now? To be honest this fic is entirely self-indulgent despite being for Midnight, so watch me as I shove a million of my life stories and quotes throughout the chapters??
> 
> `Happy Birthday [Pan](http://crispisch.tumblr.com/) and Meguan!`

“Ferre. Combeferre.” Enjolras nudges his friend, who is standing stock still, staring blankly into the distance. “Are we going to get that book from the library or not? It’ll close if you’re not quick enough.” 

“What?” his head snaps up, bag almost slipping off his shoulder in the process. 

“The book. From the library.”

“Oh no I don’t need it anymore,” he mumbles, fidgeting with his clarinet case as he begins to walk. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Enjolras asks after a moment of silence, because he may be emotionally constipated (Grantaire’s words specifically, Enjolras would never use such crass words to describe his tendency to be a little dense at times), but he knows when his friend is acting oddly. 

“Talk about what, Enj?” Ferre says, but his shoulders tense. 

“Did you get in trouble in rehearsal or something?”

“Wha- no…” the guilty reply comes. “I was just distracted, and I missed my cue. She didn’t care much anyway, went straight on to scolding the trumpets.”

“Distracted by what, may I ask?” Enjolras quirks an eyebrow, and damn maybe Combeferre _shouldn’t_  be rooting for Enjolras and Grantaire to get together if his friend is already becoming more devious just by pining from a distance. 

“…ac.”

“What was that?”

“…rac.”

“I didn’t catch that. Can you say it again?”

“Courfeyrac, you smug son of a gun,” Combeferre bites out, cheeks burning with colour in a matter of seconds. 

Enjolras simply chuckles, proceeding to walk in the direction of the state library. It’s starting grow dark already at 5:30, the sun coming down earlier than it had the week before, although the temperature did nothing to allude to the “autumn” season that had come in since the ending of February. Autumn their arse, it was still 28 degrees out! But hey, it's Australia, what did he expect. 

"I have techniques stored up my sleeve on how to make you talk if you don't do it yourself," he says, all nonchalance and casual air. 

"He was being friendly with Cecily again," is Combeferre's forlorn response. 

"But doesn't Cecily like Grantaire?" 

"Grantaire?!" Combeferre choked on air, turning to face his friend. "How do you even draw that conclusion?" 

"Overheard her talking about his 'chocolate locks' on the way to class just last week. You reckon she has a shot with him?" He starts confidently, but his voice wavers towards the end of the sentence. 

"As if. Does Grantaire even know who Cecily is?" Ferre tries to reply in a way that won't reveal how much of an idiot he thinks Enjolras is. Christ on a bike, they were in love with each other, how was it so impossible for them to see it? "Niamh is pining over her as usual anyway, you'd hope she wasn't after Grantaire for her sake." 

"Niamh?" Enjolras tilts his head. "As in Azelma's study buddy? I never noticed that." 

"You wouldn't, you're more dense than a solid block of jarrah," Ferre scoffs. 

"Jarrah? Why not red gum?"

"Oh please, you don't deserve to be made of red gum wood, you're literally that dense," he laughs, skipping off to find his book, having arrived at the library. 

"He's deflecting," Enjolras mutters to himself. Combeferre was always at his wittiest when he was trying to hide something. 

He roams the isles for lack of anything better to do, noting down books he might want to pick up for a read during the holidays. The library is silent but for the scratch of pencils and tap of keyboards, as it should be, and Enjolras breaths in the smell of old books that surrounded him. At just past six o'clock and on a Thursday night, there's less of a crowd than Enjolras is used to, being a frequent user of the library on the weekends, but all the conference rooms are still booked, groups of people slaving away at their desks.

There's something about people losing themselves in their work that Enjolras loves to watch. It's entrancing, in a sense, to see them so engrossed in their task that nothing could disrupt them. There's a certain peace of mind. 

"Hey, I'm on dinner duty tonight so I've really gotta skedaddle," Combeferre whispers, tapping Enjolras on the shoulder and breaking him out of his little trance. "I'm taking the train unless you're leaving now?"

"You go ahead," Enjolras replies. "I'm gonna catch the 6:30 bus, there's something I just remembered." 

Something he just remembered? More like some planning he's got to get to that involves Combeferre but does not require the boy in question to be sitting beside him. Not that he's going to tell his best friend that.

"Alright, I'll see you tomorrow."

With that Combeferre makes his way out through the automatic sliding doors and down the elevator, and Enjolras waves as he watches him go before finding himself an empty seat. 

He pulls out a notebook and flips to the middle to tear out a page, and after much rummaging, a pen out of his pencil case. It's literally impossible to keep a school bag neat, he's learnt through the five years of lugging it around on his shoulder. Just one big gaping hole with no compartments whatsoever, to shove multiple books, a lunchbox and whatever else is needed for the day. And a seemingly unnecessary hard bottom lining that makes everything ten times heavier, he would like to add. Despite the care he's given it, the large school emblem is faded, and the bag is losing its colour around the edges. Not that he'll be using it again once the school year's over, he's a Year 12, now. 

He smirks ever so slightly to himself, revelling in the fact that he's finally made it to the end of his schooling, and then realises he sat down to actually do something. 

 _Operation Courferre_ , he prints neatly at the top of the page, opting out of Grantaire's crude titling of " _Operation Moth-erf*cker and the CourfMeister_ ", wherever he'd gotten the absurd name from.

Before too long he's got a quarter of a page of notes that will lead to a plan, which he folds meticulously into thirds and slips into his school diary, then packing his bag and hoisting it onto his shoulder. 

When he gets home his mother already has dinner on the table, and he takes a seat. "So how was your day, Mum?" 

-«•»-

Grantaire taps his pacer against his cheek, pursing his lips. "You're sure he was glaring at you?" 

"What do you mean ' _you're sure_ '? Of course I'm sure!" Courfeyrac says irritably. "He looked ready to murder, and just because I made a weed joke."

"Yeah Courf, now the likelihood of him hearing your comment without the conductor catching you seems pretty low. It's just a coincidence."

"Uh, well you know how he missed his solo? It's because he was glaring at me."

"Naww, how cute!" Grantaire almost replies, but he doesn't, because it's not cute, it's  _bad_. He's supposed to be getting these two together! "Look, if you're not here to talk about chemistry, I'm going to have to end this Skype call, because as much as I adore discussing your lack of a love life, my parents can hear me," he says instead, because it's true anyway.

"My lack of a what?" Courfeyrac ignores the entire sentence to focus on that set of words, eyebrows shooting up. "We're not even discussing my love life right now, this is a matter of Combef-"

Grantaire glances at his door, then says "see you later!" before hanging up on the boy. Not that his parents were about to scold him, as Courfeyrac would come to assume, but because he's actually really behind on his chemistry studying and needing help, meaning he isn't exactly in the mood to be acting upon Operation Moth-erf*cker and the CourfMeister just as yet. 

He scrolls down his Skype contacts looking for someone online, skimming past the people who don't take chemistry. 

"Joly, my darling!" he sings at his computer. "Save me from my suffering!"

"You wouldn't be suffering if you paid attention in cl-"

"Shhh, baby, none of those negative words, now," Grantaire presses a finger to his own lips. "I  _was_ paying attention today. It just didn't make any sense." 

"It's simple, really. The molar masses..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That Moth-erf*cker thing is not mine, and all credits go to that tumblr post I lost in the queue of my tumblr somewhere... Speaking of, come say [hi!](http://wintersolqiers.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	9. Information Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As requested, here is a little bit of an interlude to share some information!

First of all, let’s talk about grades! I’ve mentioned this in the notes of another chapter before, but up until last year, Senior School was Years 8-12, while Junior School was anywhere from Prep/Year 1 to Year 7. But since last year, Year 7s have now become a part of Senior School, which is why The Amis and co are all in Year 12, and have had 5 years in Senior School. Gavroche however is in Year 7, and Azelma in Year 8, and the both of them will have 6 years of senior schooling, if that makes any sense.

So that means, in chapter 3 when I mentioned Enjolras and Grantaire’s meeting in year 6, that was obviously in Junior (primary) school, and then they both would have moved to the same senior school. I'd also like to point out once more that, although I'm basing this story off a Queensland school seeing as that's what I know, people will be starting Prep at the age of 6 and graduating at 18, instead of graduating at 17 like I will be.

I’ve shaped this place like a private school just because that’s what I go to, but I’m going to say a private senior school that’s co-ed is quite unlikely around where I am and I don’t think I explicitly know one, but I've been told by a dedicated reader that they do exist! Another thing with private schools is that it’s not regional, so some people can live five minutes away while others take over an hour to get there every morning. I don’t know if I’ll be incorporating that later in the story, but just in case, thought you should know. 

And I’d just like to say that, since it’s easier for me, I’ve situated the school very close to the CBD like mine is, so when Enjolras and Combeferre walk to the State Library, it’s not some massive trip. It also means the Amis can fluff around after school and go watch a movie or go shopping or something in a chapter in the future! 

 

Next we’ve got everyone’s instruments, just to reiterate in case I made it confusing in chapter 5. I think I’ll add original characters to this list as I go along too? 

  * **Flutes:**
    * Courfeyrac (+Piccolo) 
    * Cecily 
    * Harper
  * **Oboes:**
    * Jehan
  * **Clarinets:**
    * Combeferre
    * Niamh
    * Herbert
  * **Bass Clarinets:**
    * Cosette (Past Trombone player)
  * **Bassoons:**
    * Marius
  * **Alto Saxophones:**
    * Musichetta
    * Giuditta
  * **Tenor Saxophones:**
    * Albert
  * **Baritone Saxophones:**
    * Thomas
  * **Trumpets:**
    * Joly
  * **French Horns:**
    * Feuilly
  * **Trombones:**
    * Mykynliegh (he’s the loud bastard mentioned once)
  * **Euphoniums:**
    * No one mentioned
  * **Tubas:**
    * Bahorel (Past Eupho player)
  * **Percussion:**
    * Grantaire
    * Bossuet
    * Azelma



 

That’s all we have for now, and Gavroche and Éponine aren’t in the band, and obviously Montparnasse is too old to even be in school. I’m also considering bringing Floréal in sometime, so we’ll see about that.

_** Update 15.04.16: ** _ **** Floréal is a Year 12 student like the rest of the Amis, who plays the violin. 

In addition to that, band rehearsals are Monday mornings and Thursday afternoons, so basically the opposite of me...

And finally! We have everybody’s subjects, because that’s been in big demand. 

** Grantaire: **

  * Art
  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * Mathematics C
  * Chemistry
  * French



** Jehan:  **

  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * Drama
  * Art
  * Music 
  * Information Technology Systems



** Courfeyrac: **

  * English 
  * Mathematics B
  * Chemistry
  * Modern History
  * Drama
  * Health and Physical Education



** Combeferre: **

  * English 
  * Mathematics B
  * Mathematics C
  * Chemistry
  * Biology 
  * Physics



** Enjolras: **

  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * Economics
  * Modern History
  * Ancient History
  * Latin 



** Éponine: **

  * English
  * English Extension 
  * Mathematics B
  * Study of Religion
  * Science 21
  * Ancient History



** Bahorel: **

  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * Chemistry
  * Health and Physical Education
  * Information Technology Systems
  * Free period (where Accounting used to be)



** Feuilly: **

  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * French
  * Latin
  * Spanish
  * Chinese



*I interrupt this list with a headcanon that Feuilly is the actual master of languages rather than Marius, who is the fictional languages nerd, because that’s just so fitting for our little Pontmercy, don’t you think? He’ll just get all flustered and start speaking in Klingon or something.

** Bossuet: **

  * English 
  * Mathematics B
  * German
  * Modern History
  * Ancient History
  * Drama



** Joly: **

  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * Chemistry
  * Biology
  * Modern History
  * Study of Religion 



** Musichetta: **

  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * Music
  * Drama
  * Science 21
  * Modern History



** Cosette: **

  * English
  * Mathematics B
  * Music
  * Biology
  * Economics
  * Accounting



** Marius: **

  * English
  * Mathematics A
  * Accounting
  * Modern History
  * French
  * Biology



I should think that is everyone. Now, back to the story! 

_** Update 13.03.16: ** _ **** As [insomniaccsoldier](http://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniaccsoldier) has pointed out, Science 21 is probably not a subject you're all familiar with! In fact, many students in my state won't even know what you're talking about if you mention "Science 21", since the number of schools that offer it are quite few. If you're serious about reading up on my state's schooling system, I've just discovered [this site](https://www.qcaa.qld.edu.au) which may... be of help? I don't know, but basically it's the middle science, where they mix all of the sciences together in one overall subject. If you have any more questions about it though, this is a subject that I myself take, so I can definitely answer them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone thank [Snemily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/feuillyish) (and [Rianna](http://alles-vous-fair.tumblr.com/)) for helping me sort out everyone’s subjects~ :3


	10. Odd Spots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Girls just... wanna have fun?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some serious period talk in this chapter. You have been warned. 
> 
> (This chapter in particular is especially especially dedicated to [Snemily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/feuillyish). The famed Libra sanitary napkins of Australia truly do have facts called Odd Spots on them!)

"Morning Cosette," Enjolras yawns, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Hey Enjolras."

"Wait.  _Cosette_?" he whips around, almost sloshing his coffee everywhere. "What are you doing here?"

"You know, apples are actually more effective in energising you in the morning than caffeine, you coffee-blooded buffoon, you."

"I'm not a coffee-blooded buffoon, and you haven't answered my question!"

"Why don't be rude, I'm your family!" Cosette places a hand on her chest, feigning hurt.

"Yes, family as in you're my cousin who has a fully-functional house of her own two minutes away!" Enjolras says indignantly.

"You don't know it's fully-functional, something could've broken last night."

She almost expects him to start up a fully-fledged argument about this, but he just takes a gulp of his coffee and shakes his head. 

"It's too early for this, I'll see you at school."

He trudges up the stairs and back to his room to the sound of his cousin chatting away chirpily to his mother, but he's trying to block out the sound. 

"I'm so sorry about how rude he is to you," the lady sighs, watching her son's retreating form.

"Oh Auntie Mireille," Cosette smiles. "If you didn't think I was used to it by now... that's just his way of expressing love, I assure you. Besides, it's been an enjoyable morning. I freaked dad out with the blood on my sheets, made him drive around town and had him almost get caught speeding by Javert,"

"That's not exactly good, dear."

"Yes, well," Cosette continues. "And neither is forgetting to replenish your sanitary item supply last month, or having every shop either closed or out of stock. Just my luck. But you saved my life, there's no blood on the car seat, I learnt some new facts, and I even got to use one of them on Enjolras. Really, it has been a wonderful morning."

"Still, Alexandre had no right." 

-«•»-

"Plus! Because Auntie Mireille uses Libra pads, I got to learn more facts this morning!" Cosette relays the story as she attempts to shove her school bag into her sad, tiny little excuse of a school locker. 

"Ugh, TMI Cosette! I do  _not_ need to know what kind of napkins Enjolras' mum uses," Éponine says in disgust, batting away the bustling little kids who have no concept of personal space and keep bumping into her with their oversized school bags. Didn't the idiots know that they didn't need to take every single school book for every single subject home each and every day? 

Cosette rolls her eyes at the Debby Downer standing before her and is about to scold Éponine when she catches sight of Musichetta traipsing into the school grounds.

"Hey Chetta! Did you know that chewing gum while cutting onions will keep you from crying?" she says by way of greeting.

"Oh please, I learnt that one two months ago. And it's been useful, too. Did  _you_ know that the toothbrush was invented in 1498, Cosette? Because you could really invest in one," Chetta quips.

"Is it that obvious?" she covers her mouth in embarrassment. "Between needing to go to Enjolras' and having to get to school, I really didn't have the time..."

"I'm just playing with ya, you're all fine," she nudges her playfully.

"Uhh," Éponine speaks up then, raising her hand. "Is no one going to point out that you two losers use Libra? Everybody knows U by Kotex is the better brand." 

"Please Ép, which one is more important: better adhesive, or new fun facts every treacherous day of your period?" Musichetta asks her, face all hard lines and seriousness.

"Better adhesive, obviously! If I'm using a pad I sure as hell ain't using one that's gonna guarantee a higher chance of blood spillage."

She sticks her tongue out at a passing boy who visibly flinches at the words blood spillage, and winks at him as he scuttles away.

"And have you ever seen me with blood on my school skirt?"

"Well that's because you use tampons too, dumbarse," Éponine immediately shuts down Chetta's rebuttal. 

"And you said finding out Enjolras' mum used Libra pads was too much information!" Cosette squeaks, trying to cover her ears while not dropping the books in her arms.

"You chicken," Éponine laughs in response.

"Chickens don't walk on ice."

"Oh that's Odd Spot #56, right?" Musichetta says. "I had that fact like three days in a row at the end of last year."

"Can we  _not_!?" 

"Poor darling Éponine," Musichetta and Cosette croon together, giggling as they go. 

She doesn't appreciate the comment. She's not a darling, and she's not poor either. 

She uses her death glare to push her way through the crowd to catch up with her friends. 

-«•»-

"Hey did you know, that penguins have an organ above their eyes that changes seawater to freshwater?" Cosette says as she takes her seat at the lunch table.  "And a cat has 32 muscles in each ear," she gracefully cuts off Combeferre with another fact before he can start rambling on about penguins for the rest of lunch. 

"See I told you Cosette's perfect material for a crazy cat lady," Bahorel mock whispers in Feuilly's ear, which earns him a light smack to the forearm that lingers just a touch longer than it really should, although it goes unnoticed to the rest of the table. 

"Honestly Bahorel, you're going to need to stop making comments like that if you're going to keep me up until two in the morning complaining about your lack of friends," he says.

"Your lack of- your what?" Grantaire squawks from the other side of the table. "I'm sorry, am I not included as a friend of yours, Bahorel? Look at this whole table! Where is this lack of friends thing coming from?" 

"Feuilly, don't spurt things out of context like that," Bahorel pouts, crossing his arms. 

"He just wants to be  _popular_ ," Chetta rolls his eyes. "Like king of the school or something."

"Popular! He wants to be popular," she sings, and Éponine comes in to harmonise.

Before they know it the entire table's singing, save for Combeferre, who's trying to be respectable, Bahorel, whose sulking figure is slowly sinking lower in his seat, and Enjolras, who is... God knows where he is, but he probably got into a debate with the teacher and won't let them leave the classroom until he's won the conversation. 

"I don't deserve this kind of humiliation." 

"Well sure you do, pal!" Bossuet gives Bahorel a hearty slap on the back, shooting him a toothy grin. 

"Don't call me pal,  _mate_."

"Don't call me mate,  _buddy_." 

"Don't call me buddy, bruh."

"Don't call me bruh-"

"Oh, here they go again," Joly drops his head to the top of his lunch box, already rubbing at his temples. "If I get a migraine it's your fault!"

But no one hears him, especially not the girls, who have huddled in a corner and are secretly plotting something. 

"If you guys used U by Kotex, I wouldn't have to be explaining this to you," Éponine grumbles, thumbing at her phone to bring up the official page and pulling up a YouTube video. "It's called 'Missile Moments'," she explains. 

"And you're sure this is the perfect prank to pull on the boys?"

"Of course," she answers confidently. 

 

And she was right in being confident, because the moment Marius spotted the dropped tampon on the ground he screeched and hit the floor in seconds, colour draining from his face as Cosette tried and failed to keep a smile off her face, shoulders trembling at the effort to not laugh. 

Jehan and Joly, who both went to retrieve the oh-so-feared sanitary item bumped heads as they reached for it, and ended up lying beside Marius, groaning. 

"Well Jesus, I didn't think it'd go  _that_ well," Chetta throws her head back in a laugh, high-fiving Éponine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For you confused non-Australian's, [this is the official Libra site](http://www.lovelibra.com.au/), and [this is the U by Kotex site](https://www.ubykotex.com.au/). The Missile Moment video is [right here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jbSdKvixS4), by the way.


	11. Scary Story Time™, as named by the scaredy cat (*cough* Courfeyrac *cough*)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ 1/2 ] Jehan's-sleep-over-bash-before-the-reality-of-school-work-really-sets-in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well [Sally O'Bagel](http://mbemma.tumblr.com/)? I'm still going to kill you for sending me that reddit story, but yeah, I did enjoy it...
> 
> I suppose this is fair **warning** that it's a sleep over and they're having a scary story night, but I've tried not to include anything specific as much as possible. There's one story that Bossuet reads that's from reddit ([this series](https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/3iex1h/im_a_search_and_rescue_officer_for_the_us_forest/)), and honestly it's one of the funny ones but if you feel uneasy about it then stop where Bossuet clears his throat and continue at the line " _"What the actual... what?" Bahorel makes a stream of confused expressions and gestures."_ ". Oh yeah, and the first line is slightly gory, but I think you'll be alright. 
> 
> Thank you [Snemily](http://justidksurpriseme.tumblr.com/) as always for helping out!

"And then he ripped her open like as if she were a portal to another universe and feasted upon her organs, blood oozing between his fingers as he picked her apart." 

Courfeyrac shrieks in disgust, leaping into the lap of the next person closest to him and clinging onto them for dear life. 

"Didn't like my story? I thought it was epic," Bahorel teases. "You're such a scaredy cat, Courf."

"Hey speaking of cats," Bossuet pipes up, head popping out of a packet of Doritos. "Here's a little something I read on reddit the other day." 

Joly groans, lazily trying to slap a hand over the boy's mouth. "We don't need to hear it. You guys don't want to hear it." 

"Aw come on, this one isn't even scary, it's just plain funny!" he says as he pouts, pulling up the page on his phone. "Here here, this is it," Bossuet clears his throat.

" _We'd gotten a report that an older woman had fainted along one of the trails, and needed assistance getting back down to the main area. We hike up to where she's at, and her husband is just beside himself. He runs, well, I guess more jogs, to us, and tells us that he was a little ways off the trail looking at something when his wife starts screaming behind him. He runs back to her and she's passed out on the trail. We get her on a backboard, and as we're getting her down to the welcome center, she comes to and starts screaming again. I calm her down and ask her what happened. I can't remember verbatim what she said, but essentially, what happened was this: She'd been waiting for her husband when she started hearing this really strange sound. She said it sounded sort of like a cat, but it was off somehow, and she couldn't quite figure out why._

_She went a little ahead to try and hear it better, and it sounded like it was coming closer. She said the closer it got, the more uneasy she was, until she finally figured out what was wrong. I do remember this next part, because it was so weird that I don't think I could forget it if I tried. "It wasn't a cat. It was a man, saying the word 'meow' over and over. Just 'meow, meow, meow'. But it wasn't a man, it couldn't have been, because I've never heard a man make his voice buzz like that. I thought my hearing aid was going out, but it wasn't, I adjusted it and it still sounded all buzzy. It was awful. He was coming closer, but I couldn't see him. And the closer he got the more scared I was, and the last thing I remember was a shape coming out of the trees. I guess that's when I fainted." Now, obviously I'm a little perplexed as to why a guy would be out in the freaking woods chanting 'meow, meow' at people._

_So once we get down the mountain, I tell my superior that I'm gonna go search the area to see if I can find anything. He gives me the go ahead, and I grab a radio and hike back to where she fainted. I don't see anyone, so I keep going about a mile more, and I when I head back I go off the trail, to see if I can figure out where she saw him coming from. It's almost sunset by this point, and I don't have any desire to be out at night alone, so I just sort of write it off and make a mental note to check it out again tomorrow. But as I'm headed back, I start to hear something in the distance. I stop, and I call out for anyone in the immediate area to identify themselves. The sound didn't come closer or get louder, but it sounded exactly like a man saying 'meow, meow' in this really odd monotone. As comical as it makes it sound, it was almost like that guy on South Park with the electrolarynx, Ned. I go off the trail in the direction I think it's coming from, but I never seem to get closer. It's almost like it's coming from all directions. Eventually, it just sort of fades out, and I ended up going back to the welcome centre. I didn't get any further reports like that, and even though I went back to that area, I never heard that exact sound again._ "

"What the actual... what?" Bahorel makes a stream of confused expressions and gestures, chewing his way around a particularly stubborn redskin. "That's not even... whatever man, my story was way better than that."

There's a murmur of agreement and Joly just sighs, glad that Bossuet didn't read one of the worse stories. 

"Does anything even scare you, oh-fearless leader?" Grantaire prods at Enjolras's arm with the other end of his wizz fizz spoon.

"Capitalism," the boy shoots back with sure-fire precision and a raised eyebrow. 

"Honestly though," Feuilly says. "You've been nonchalantly flipping through that book for an hour of Scary Story Time™ without even flinching."

"Don't tell me you're tuning out the stories with a book about Robespierre because you're actually really scared now, Enjolras," Éponine smirks. She sucks on the tail of a killer python idly, waiting for a response.

"Of course not, ghosts aren't even real," comes Enjolras' reply.

"Oh? Prove it to me."

"Well, they're merely a guise set up by parents who act irresponsibly in the presence of their children, and yet are too afraid to admit to their 'precious little jewels'," he sneers at those words, "that the sounds they'd heard in the middle of the night were a cause of sexual intercourse."

"Then what of the other stories? The ones without ghosts moaning about as they roam the streets?" Bahorel asks. But he never gets an answer, because Musichetta pushes him over and sits on him, clearing her throat. 

"I have the scariest story of them all," she drawls, leaning forward. "If you're ready for it." She studies the group's faces, waiting for the perfect timing.

"Exam block."

Much not to her surprise, every single person gasps at the words, even Enjolras, stoic as he may try to be. 

"That's a true horror story if I ever heard one," Jehan says, sounding breathless. "But I think I can one-up you."

"Yeah Prouvaire!" Grantaire cups his hands around his mouth to cheer his friend on. 

The night continues like that, scary stories swapped around beneath the southern cross in the night sky, tents hastily set up behind them as they all sit on their sleeping bags with nothing but lollies and lamps. 

Enjolras and Grantaire exchange a look somewhere into the second hour of Scary Story Time™, and it can only be read as " _so... when is Courfeyrac going to realise that he leapt into Combeferre's lap during Bahorel's story about 45 minutes ago?_ " 

He doesn't though, just falls sound asleep in Ferre's arms during a heated discussion about the logistics of staircases in the middle of the woods before he can even think to notice exactly whose chest he's nuzzled into. 

By three am their junk food stash is mostly depleted and they're starting to get the sense that they should get to bed, all the while knowing that the sun's going to start making its way up into the sky in about an hour. (Who the hell said Autumn started in March?)

"A study sleepover", Jehan had told his parents when he'd asked if they could pull out the camping gear and have a backyard campout, just like they had back in seventh grade. 

Study sleepover his arse, this was just their last chance of remotely having fun before the reality of exams hit them. Not that they already hadn't, of course. They were just particularly good at ignoring their problems when they felt the need to. 

"So who's sleeping with who?" Jehan yawns, and earns a snort from Éponine. 

"I ain't doing the do with any of you filthy animals. But Chetta, Cosette and I will take Cosette's tent." 

"I still can't believe your dad used to have an obsession with camping and literally has an entire shed dedicated to camping gear," Courfeyrac can hear Musichetta say as they retreat to their tent, and he blinks his eyes, feeling a little disorientated. 

"What's going on?" he tries to say, but what comes out is a weird rasp. 

Enjolras' eyes open wide in alarm when he sees Courfeyrac's eyes open, and he stands up quickly, leaping onto Operation Courferre. "Right, so! There's a tent of four and a tent of six. Bahorel and Feuilly, you guys'll go together, right? Do you want the six or the four?"

"We'll go in the six," Feuilly says. "Come on Jehan, join us."

"Kinky," Grantaire can't help but say. 

"Well I'll... I'll go with them?" Marius stumbles along behind them, blush rising up his cheeks.

"Doubly kinky."

"Grantaire you're going to kill the boy!" Joly reprimands him. Then he turns to his lanky little friend and gives him a hug. "Don't worry Marius, Bossuet and I will protect you tonight." 

"Ooh, even more k-" 

"Don't you  _dare_." 

"Perfect! So that leaves Ferre, Courf, R and I in the tent of four."

"Ew what? I'm with  _you_?" Grantaire gasps in mock horror. 

"Suck it up and zip it up, Taire," Combeferre hisses, pointing to the boy in his lap that he assumes to be still asleep. "There is nothing perfect about the arrangement, Enjolras." 

His grief is met by a roll of the eyes, and Enjolras waves a hand as he picks up his sleeping bag and rolls it out on the left side. 

"I call dibs on the right!" Grantaire leaps up, and the two share a nod. 

Ferre just sighs, and stands up, carrying Courfeyrac in his arms. "Can you guys just set out our sleeping bags then?" 

"Anything for you, oh fair Ferre," R bows.

Courfeyrac is too scared to reveal that he's not actually asleep, and just takes advantage of the moment and curls into Combeferre's arms, smiling ever so softly as the boy just wraps his arms around him tighter. 

That is, until he remembers that he hates Combeferre, and he tumbles to the ground, yelping as his eyes snap open. "Why are you carrying me like a princess?" he says, just as he hears Joly squawk, "You can't sleep facing the north, guys! Don't you know anything, that's the direction of the dead, we could all wake up dead tomorrow!" from the next tent.

"You were... asleep?" Ferre says, rubbing at his neck awkwardly. 

"Whatever. Good night, guys." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a mess I'm sorry. Celebrate with me that I only have one exam and two assignments left?


	12. "Some" sleep.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ 2/2 ] Jehan's-sleep-over-bash-before-the-reality-of-school-work-really-sets-in!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The school term is officially over!! So for those of you who celebrate or live in countries that celebrate Easter, Happy Easter and may the chocolate be with you. 
> 
> Have a short chapter to celebrate? Whoops I didn't proofread it.

"Whatever. Good night, guys," Courfeyrac crosses his arms, rolling over onto his side so that he can distance himself as much as possible from Combeferre. 

Until he gets a kick to the stomach.

And another to his left pectoral (which shields his heart good lord is Grantaire trying to kill him?).

"Taire?" Courfeyrac tries to reach out to the boy but he's not there. It's just an empty pillow.

Now, he may have fallen asleep early on in the Scary Story Time™ session, but he has to admit he is starting to panic. There are legs kicking him, legitimately pushing him further towards the middle of the tent and yet Grantaire isn't beside...

Oh.

After having fumbled for his phone for a light source, he sees now why he couldn't feel Grantaire when he extended his arm out. But before anything else he just has to ask: who the hell falls asleep so easily after Scary Story Time™? And also,  _who turns 90° in their sleep?_

Courfeyrac sighs, dropping his phone back by his head and trying to make himself comfortable. At this point he was scared out of his wits because he thought there was a ghost kicking him, he's just damn tired, and quite honestly sleeping with his back pressed up against Combeferre is better than the likelihood of Grantaire kicking him in the crotch when he moves again. He's no weakling, but he's not petty enough to survive a night of multiple bruises just because he hates the person sleeping to his right. 

He hear's Ferre splutter for a moment, and suddenly the body against his back shuffles and there are arms around him. 

"I'm sorry," Combeferre whispers into Courf's ear, and  _no_ he didn't just shiver (well he did, but it was because the breath on his neck was cold). "I didn't sign up to get slapped in the face by Enjolras' stray arms. You know he sleeps like an octopus."

Courfeyrac is about to respond with a nod, but like he said before, he's petty (or did he say not petty?), so he turns his head a little and just whispers back, "and that gives you the permission to just envelope me in a massive bear hug?"

"My cheek still stings, and his finger landed in my mouth," Combeferre says by way of explanation, all 185cm of him wrapping tightly around the 5'3" boy.

Alright, so maybe he gratuitously rounded up and he's 5'2", but that's not the point. 160.4 centimetres is 5.26 feet, and therefore has the right to be rounded up to 3 inches. Courfeyrac can do his maths, he got a B+ in the last test. 

So he settles for a sigh, and figures he should just try to get some sleep.

-«•»-

"Some" sleep, he said. 

"Some" sleep, and he woke up at twelve to a very Combeferre-smelling shirt, and a kookaburra laughing his guts out in the distance. 

"Some" sleep, and everyone's inside eating lunch while watching TV except for him and the very Combeferre-smelling shirt that is currently attached to an equally Combeferre-smelling Combeferre. 

 

Courfeyrac sits bolt up right, jolting the boy still wrapped around him awake. 

This is not okay.

In fact, he's not sure which is more not okay.

Either the fact that he spent an entire night snuggled up in Combeferre's arms and slept really well, or the fact that no one thought to wake him up when they decided to have a mini Parks and Rec Marathon. 

"I hear the theme song," Courf says with a predatory snarl on his face as he shakes Combeferre awake. "We're taking them down." 

-«•»-

Now Jehan won't say it's weird to see Enjolras and Grantaire smiling at each other positively  _giggling_ , but it's weird to see Enjolras and Grantaire smiling at each other positively giggling. 

"I can't believe that worked," Enjolras says lowly. 

"They looked so cute," Grantaire smiles. "But you know they're going to murder each other the moment they wake up."

Bahorel catches the end of Grantaire's words, and nudges him with his elbow. "Not before they kill me for taking photos."

He shakes his phone and grins toothily. "I have enough supply to blackmail them for a lifetime."

"I've already put it on my Snapchat story," Éponine smirks. 

They sit together chuckling along, until Feuilly's head pops up, colour drained from his face. He keeps looking from the screen to the group, before he opens his mouth, eyes wide. 

"Guys... we're watching  _Parks and Rec_."

But it's too late, because by the time he finishes that sentence Marius is a screaming mess on the floor as Courfeyrac leaps on him in a you-started-watching-Parks-and-Rec-without-me rage, closely followed by Combeferre, who declares tickle war upon the group.

-«•»-

Jehan gets in trouble for not studying at his study sleepover. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These little "sleeping habits" I've dropped in are legitimate stories from Year 8 camp.


	13. And a Side of Fresh Combeglare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can't believe you _named_ my glare," is all he responds with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in less than an hour but at least it's proofread this time?? Sorry guys.

"Members, I would like you all to first and foremost give yourselves a pat on the back," Enjolras says. "Your tireless work throughout this term has not been fruitless, as we have secured a slot in speaking at the Rape Awareness Campaign's Young Advocate's Showcase. It's on the 4th of April, so some of you may be away on holiday, but those of you who know that you will be able to attend, we will be knuckling down on our speech in our coming meetings."

"Ooh a speech, how risqué," Grantaire says in a sing-song manner, rolling the 'r' excessively. "That's going to make such a difference in the world."

He shouldn't be playing devil's advocate. He knows that. Enjolras' speeches are always captivating without a fail; but he doesn't speak entirely falsely. A speech can be dull, or overlooked. They would do much better with a more outgoing and memorable performance - say even an interpretive dance. Not that uh, not that Grantaire is interested in helping them, of course...

Grantaire is met with more than the usual righteous fury of Enjolras though, and he flees his seat to perch himself in Courfeyrac's arms.

"Courfeyrac!" he cries. "Save me, oh  _save me_ from the wrath of the Combeglare!" 

"I beg your pardon?" Combeferre asks, his eyes softening marginally in question.

"My knight in shining armour," Grantaire places a loud, sloppy kiss to Courfeyrac's cheek. "Seriously though Ferre, you've gotta ease up on those eyes. I see why you need glasses now. Glaring like that's goingto make your eyesight deteriorate." 

"I can't believe you  _named_ my glare," is all he responds with.

"Well it's..." Grantaire ponders for a moment. "A rather rare occurrence, but a terrifying one when it does appear. It usually happens when I'm either being unnecessarily antagonistic, à la me just then, or when Courf is being unnecessarily cute."

He feels a smack on his arm and he's being pushed off his seat in Courfeyrac's lap, quickly sprawling out onto the carpeted ground. 

"I am not cute!" Courf pouts, crossing his arms. "Besides, he just glares at me because he doesn't like me."

"I thought we established this Courfeyrac," Combeferre says irritably, lip twitching ever so slightly. "I do not not like you!"

"Don't use double negatives on me, it's confusing! Some of us aren't smart enough for that."

"This stops right now," Enjolras snaps, bringing the room back to attention. "We were just congratulating ourselves for an achievement, and I won't have the moment ruined by my two best friends." He articulates the last three words of the sentence with venom. 

He looks around the room, now settled with petrified silence, and shakes his head. He is still annoyed with Grantaire of course, but the comment "unnecessarily antagonistic" seemed to strike something inside of him. Did the boy truly mean all the words he said day in and day out? Or was he just playing devil's advocate for the fun of it all? It made sense in a way; they always seemed to be fine when they were working on Operation Courferre, but it was the moment they were back in the meetings that R would snark his way right through to every nerve ending in Enjolras's body. Perhaps Grantaire was not quite as cynical as Enjolras had originally thought. Of course this did not mean that Grantaire was not a cynic, but Enjolras chanced himself with the thought that R might believe in something. Anything.

He shakes his head to clear it, but it's of no use. His mind has wandered, and there's no use for a meeting now. They can just start preparing their speech for the showcase next week.

"Meeting dismissed."

-«•»-

"Look Enjolras, I'm sorry," Combeferre apologises for what Enjolras swears to be is the 160th time today. "I hadn't even realised I was glaring, and then Courfeyrac starts on that nonsense about me not liking him  _again_ , and I thought we had finally gotten past that, and-"

Enjolras interrupts him, suddenly curious. "You know I meant to ask earlier. Why  _were_ you glaring in the first place? You seemed unperturbed by the "unnecessarily antagonistic" comment, which makes me think you knew R was never serious when he was mocking me..."

"Enjolras, you didn't know that?" Ferre looks at his friend in surprise, concealing his desperate attempt of changing the subject. Of course he knew Enjolras had no idea. The boy was as oblivious as a blind bat.

"That's not my question," Enjolras raises his eyebrows. "You were glaring before Courfeyrac said anything about you not liking him, so was what Grantaire said true? Do you pull out the Combeglare when Courf is being cute?" 

"Oh not you too with that name," Combeferre groans. "And it's not cute. Courfeyrac is not cute, and he's not being cute. He's just distracting a lot of the time, is all."

"Distracting by what, sitting in the same room as you?" Enjolras counters with a devious smirk. 

"No, it was more like how Grantaire was all over him, I know they're both tactile but it's..." he trails off slowly, knowing he's spoken too much. "It'snotlikeIhaveacrushoranything."

His blond friend lips his licks, leaning in. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"It's not like I have a crush or anything. On Courfeyrac. That would be weird. Pure idiosyncrasy on my part."

"Oh of course not!" Enjolras scoffs, hoping he hasn't overdone it and Combeferre can read his words as being sarcastic (which they totally are, but his best friend doesn't need to know that yet). "You're my best friend. I'd notice if you had a crush on someone. I'd especially notice if you had a crush on my other best friend, I'm not oblivious."

Well, he is oblivious. Very oblivious in fact, and while that's mostly when it comes to matters regarding himself (may Combeferre take the time to mention Grantaire), he actually  _has_ overlooked the fact that his best friend has a crush on his other best friend,  so that's a comment Combeferre won't make until a later date.

Oh God why did he say the word date now he's thinking about going on cute little dates with cute little Courfeyrac and it's so painfully delusional because it's never going to happen and no he didn't need that image of them cuddling just like they had at Jehan's sleepover, and he didn't need a looping video in his mind of them sharing a milkshake at a 1950's diner, and  _holy hell on high what kind of a kerfuffle have I gotten myself into?!_

And the above thought really is a question Combeferre should be asking himself more often. Unfortunately he doesn't, because he deems questions such as " _A spacecraft is placed in orbit around Saturn so that it is Saturn-stationary. What is the period, in seconds, of this spacecraft's orbit, and what is the radius of the orbit of the spacecraft?_ " more important. 

Nerd.

 


	14. In My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exam block, and other incredulous things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy April Fools! In celebration, this chapter is very foolish.  
> And also not proofread, but that's nothing new. 
> 
> (Sorry.)

"I'm dead. Like actually, legit-"

"-imately," Combeferre cuts in, finishing the abbreviated word. 

"- dying right now, I'm not okay," Bahorel groans, ignoring Combeferre. 

From behind him, Bossuet just nearly averts spilling his juice all over his maths notes, and looks up.

"You know I really feel like you're not in the position to be saying that. You only have five subjects, we've already had our English assignment last week,  _and_ your PE exam is literally just playing sport."

"You wound me, my little bald eagle," Bahorel says. "You also underestimate my expertise in procrastination."

Feuilly simply shakes his head, opening his laptop to open up the schedule for exam block, his desktop meticulously sorted out into folders as he clicks through his files. "Does everyone know their exam schedules?" he asks the group. 

"Read it out loud, just lay the bad news on me, I'm a big boy and I can handle it," Courfeyrac holds a fist to his heart, giving the boy a strong nod. 

"Maths B and A exam at 8:30 on Monday," Feuilly starts, immediately met by a chorus of groans. "Science 21 and Art written task on Tuesday, Maths C 8:30 and Drama performance at 1:00 on Wednesday..."

Needless to say, there is a symphony of unearthly screams of pain for about an hour after the schedule is read aloud. So much so that Bahorel drapes himself across Feuilly's back and tangles himself around the boy in such a way that his hair muffles all sounds coming out of the kid's mouth - but it's the sacrifices people make in order to spare themselves from the pain of exam block.

Perhaps next time, Feuilly would like to consider at least reading out the schedule at the end of the day, not at 8 o'clock in the morning, where he's inadvertently done a better job of sucking all the energy out of his friends than a dementor could have before school has even started. 

-«•»-

Grantaire sits idly across his cheap, uncomfortable, school-supplied plastic seat as he watches Enjolras pace around their lunch table, furious muttering spilling from his lips.

"Hey, sorry to keep you guys waiting, just had to chat with Mrs..." Jehan walks up to the table, dumping his bag on the ground. "Where is everyone? I would have expected at least Courfeyrac to come bounding out of the classroom at the first moment possible."

And to speak of the devil, the remainder of the group comes trudging towards the lunch table, fighting the crowd of students trying to leave school. 

"Are we going to the Musain this afternoon? I really feel like we deserve it after _what Feuilly did to us_ ," Bahorel glares pointedly at the ginger. "Also, I found twenty bucks in my Chem notebook, so I can shout like, half the group something."

"You're a darling, Rel," Éponine coos, ignoring the "who said I'd get anything for you?" that comes in response, already heading for the gates. 

It's already 3:30 by that point when they file out of the school in one line, as big groups should do to respect other people's space on public pathways (yes, Enjolras enforced that in Year 5), putting their school hats on like the good students they were not because the teacher on gate duty had told them to, but because they are reputable Grade 12s who are excellent role models for the years below them. 

(So reputable in fact, that as soon as they are 10 metres from the school they take their hats off, because screw those useless things.) 

"You know, you three have been awfully chummy these past few months," Courfeyrac points at the little triangle Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta have made as they walk in conversation. 

"Well they're all very good friends," Marius says, looking at the three. They have always been close, have they not?

"You mean to say you never realised - it never even crossed your  _mind_ that they were dating?" Éponine raises one sharp eyebrow.

"Dating?!" Marius squawks, almost knocking out a poor Year 7 girl walking behind them with his bag in the process. 

"No way..." Courfeyrac's jaw drops, and he blindly pats at Combeferre's arm. "Did you know that? Did you notice?"

"It may have occurred to me that it was a possibility once or twice," he replies, his voice getting higher as Courfeyrac's hand unknowingly moves from patting Combeferre's upper arm to his left pectoral. 

"How did I not know," Cosette whispers to herself. "In my life, I swear I have never been more betrayed, Chetta."

"Aww, hun," Musichetta pouts at her. "I just... didn't want to rub it in your face or something. At least not until your department was doing better." 

The girl grins toothily at her blonde friend, but she's keeping a trained eye on Marius's reaction, who seems not to have noticed the comment at all, which is a disappointment because if Chetta can't subtly get the two of them together, she's going to need to pull out her big guns (which is tiring, and a massive effort that needs energy she doesn't have, all thanks to school.)

By the time they reach the Musain it's 4 in the afternoon, no thanks to  _Musichetta_ (and Bossuet, and Joly - Cosette is a better person than one who places all the blame on one person when she can equally distribute it amongst three).

_Mme_ _ Haucheloupe's _  says the faint curling script at the top of the sign, with a big bold  _CAFÉ MUSAIN_ beneath it, that can also be seen painted onto the window-front.

"Good afternoon and welcome to the Café Musain!" a girl flashes a cheery smile. "What can I do for you?"

And ah, if Grantaire couldn't remember drawing that face a mere month or two ago. She looks better, Grantaire thinks distantly, there is more colour to her eyes. 

"From the goodness within you, could I hazard asking the young maiden for a kiss on the lips, please?" Jehan asks with a smile, walking up to the counter.

"Mmm," the barista replies, pushing buttons on the cashier. "That will come to a total of forty-five dollars and sixty cents, complete with your usual order." 

"What, I don't get a boyfriend's discount?  _And_ I have to pay for the kiss?" Jehan says, incredulous, with one hand on his chest. 

She rolls her eyes after that, and leans over the counter to give Jehan a peck on the lips, her cheeks stained with the beginnings of a blush. Jehan's onto poetics now, reciting his favourites as they come popping into his head, and the group's smiling, because the sight is just so damn cute, and the barista looks so embarrassed, and-

wait a second. Jehan has a  _girlfriend?!?_

(Yes, Courfeyrac said that aloud.) 

"Way to ruin a moment," Bahorel says through his teeth, leaning over to Feuilly. 

"Well where are my manners!" Jehan jumps up. "Everybody, meet my darling little girlfriend! This is Autumn, and she's in Year 10." 

"Miss Hara, a pleasure," Combeferre holds out his hand, and it's met with a firm shake from the girl. 

The group turns to him, faces clearly displaying nothing but  _how the hell do you know her_ , because they can all be a little daft at times, and they didn't even realise she went to the same school as them, although in their defence it was a very big school. 

"She's her grade's representative for Interna-" Combeferre starts to explain, but he's cut off by Bossuet's, "Your girlfriend's in year  _ten_?" 

The girl in question huffs a small laugh and tilts her head. "Is this in regards to my baby face, or the fact that Jehan is two years older than me?" 

The group is shortly in stitches, and Courfeyrac pats Autumn on the shoulder. "You my friend, I like you." 

She takes their orders after that, and no one is more surprised than Grantaire (who declines a drink under the pretence that he's broke), that Enjolras has the most pretentiously monstrous order of them all. 

-«•»-

Before too long they have a Maths circle set up in the cafe, and Autumn's coming over with their drinks. 

Grantaire starts when something is placed before him, and begins to say something when Autumn gives him a look. 

"On the house, provided you let me see that sketch some time," she smiles softly.

She moves on to the next person in the circle, and then hands a brown paper bag to Éponine. "For Azelma, but there's extra for you and Gavroche this time. Make sure she shares."

The older girl throws up her arms and then points a finger at Autumn. "You're the culprit! It's you, you're cookie kid!" 

"Cookie kid?" Feuilly cocks his head to the side.

"Azelma always has a bag of cookies in her school bag. She thinks she's being sneaky, but she's really not. She likes to sneak them in our lunch boxes sometimes too. Thinks I don't notice but buddy, we don't got cookies anywhere else in the house," she explains. "Thanks though, really," she says to the barista. "I owe you one."

"Not a chance in a lifetime, you guys coming to this cafe is repayment enough," Autumn shakes her head at Éponine.

"Could this girl get any nicer?" Courfeyrac mouths, his face aghast. "She's too nice! How are people in the world this nice?" 

It earns a smack upside his head from Enjolras, who nonchalantly sips on his... well, for his sake they'll call it coffee, but it's certainly not that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Combeferre is me, and if you say the word "legit" around me I will (lightly, because I am a weak baby) punch you in the arm.
> 
> And in case you didn't know, exam block is basically where you don't have any classes for a week, and just need to turn up at school for your exam. Not every school does it, but in my opinion, it's pretty great.
> 
> You guys got me to 666 hits and I can't thank you enough ;)


	15. Ah Men.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The school term has finally graced them with the first holiday of the year, and Courfeyrac thanks Jesus for an Easter miracle of sorts.

"Jesus Christ,  _finally_!" Courf sighs, collapsing onto the sofa, the last day of Term 1 finally over. 

"I'm just uh... I'm just going to skedaddle," Combeferre splutters, backing out of the doorway until he hits Enjolras.

"What are you talking about, we just got here," Enjolras walks past him with an odd look on his face and straight into Courfeyrac's room to drop his bag off. 

Ferre sighs, licking his lips and stepping back into the room with his hands clasped behind his back. He looks over at Courfeyrac, who has now sprawled out on the couch in a starfish position, his eyes fluttering closed. Combeferre sucks in a deep breath and clears his throat twice, trying to get the boy's attention.

"Buzz off for one second and let me rest from my time in Hell, would you?" Courfeyrac puts his arm over his eyes and squints up at Combeferre.

"No I- you're-" he stumbles over his words. "You're flying low." 

Courfeyrac rolls off the sofa and straight onto the hardwood floor at that, landing face first. 

"Oh my God, for how long?" he screams, pulling up the zipper with haste. "Tell me these things earlier, would you?"

"You um, told me to buzz off so," Combeferre replies, slowly heading towards Courfeyrac's room to put his school bag down with Enjolras's. 

If he's completely honest with himself he doesn't understand why he agreed to hang out at Courfeyrac's house with Enjolras when he was finally on holidays and could have been spending the time going to the new moth exhibition that was in the Science Centre. He had collected the pamphlet for it last month for crying out loud, and he's been looking forward to taking a peek ever since but _no_ , Enjolras just had to use his persuasive voice, and Combeferre just had to be a stereotypical pining teenager and submit himself to the pain of being in the presence of his crush. 

(In all fairness though, at least Combeferre has reached the point wherein he can accept his feelings, unlike someone -  ~~Courfeyrac~~ \- although he does have the unfair advantage of having harboured said feelings for... undisclosed years that Combeferre would not like to bring to anyone else's attention.)

-«•»-

_** Chat name: MAH HOMIES YO (christ stop changing the chat name courfeyrac) ** _

  
**_From: Courfeyrac_**  
_EMERGENCY EASTER SLEEPOVER RIGHT RIGHT NOW GATHER 'ROUND BITCHES_

_**From: Combeferre  
** We're literally sitting right next to you and you didn't think to tell us about this before sending the message out?_

_**From: Bossuet  
** God damn it the one year we decide to do an Easter family gathering_  
_Just save me some chocolate_

_**From: Grantaire  
** I'll save it for you in my stomach?_

_**From: Bossuet  
** Screw you R_

_**From: Grantaire  
** You wish you could, darling ;)_

_**From: Enjolras  
** That's enough, Grantaire_

_**From: Grantaire  
** Are you jeeeaaaaalooouuussssss?_

_**From: Éponine**_  
 _Shut your gob, R. FFS_  
_Can I bring Gav and Zelma though_

 _ **From: Courfeyrac  
** YES BRING _  
_Ok but they will need to be locked in a safe room for when things start to get..._  
_riskayyy_

_**From: Feuilly  
** We're not drinking, Courfeyrac. It's not good for your brain cells._

_**From: Joly  
** And no it's not medicinal_

_**From: Bahorel  
** Y'all are no fun, but I'll be there_

_**From: Musichetta  
** Cosette, Marius and I are in and while we're at Woolies how much chocolate should we be buying_

_**From: Joly  
** Why are you with Cosette and Marius you BLEW ME OFF FOR COSETTE AND MARIUS_  
_I... I'll be back soon guys, let me just cry into Bossuet's shoulder_

_**From: Grantaire  
** HOW ARE YOU MY FRIENDS COLES IS OBVIOUSLY THE BETTER GROCERY STORE _

_**From: Jehan  
** I second that observation, and my parents said yes so I'm in :3 _

-«•»-

The group squeezes themselves onto Courfeyrac's sofa, Joly snuggled into Musichetta's lap and Feuilly somehow sitting on Bahorel's shoulders to make space for all the people. Gavroche has already disappeared to steal food from the kitchen (no one even saw him enter the house but they know he's there), and Azelma is wedged uncomfortably between her sister and Grantaire, who won't stop playing with her hair in an attempt to make a never before seen style of braid. 

And it's a whole night of stuffing themselves with Easter chocolate, popcorn, chips, and basically every piece of junk food they can find in the house before they're all groaning on the floor, clutching at their stomachs. Éponine ships Azelma and Gavroche away after that, telling them that what was to come next was not for their eyes. 

But of course, Gavroche is not satisfied with that, and Christ on a bike those puppy eyes are actually a really menacing device. (Read: The two younger Thénardier's are permitted to take part in exactly four rounds of truth or dare.)

"So Gavroche," Courfeyrac taps his fingers together. "Truth or dare?"

"Dare," the little boy answers easily, leaning back. 

"I dare you to kiss your sister on the lips."

"That's disgusting,  _and_ that's incest!" all three of the Thénardier's stand up to shout in unison.

"That was so cute!" Courfeyrac coos. "But it's alright, I was joking. I dare Gavroche to tie someone's underwear of your choice onto my front door neighbour's flag pole."

Gavroche smirks and rises to the challenge. "Hand it over, Bahorel," he holds out an expectant hand, and dashes out to tie the older boy's underwear on Mr. Wallace's flag pole.

When he comes back, he plops himself onto the ground and puts a finger to his chin in thought. "Combeferre, truth or dare."

And that's a dangerous glint to the kid's eye if Combeferre's ever seen one. "Truth, I suppose," he says with a gulp.

"Have you ever had a crush on anyone in this room at any point in time?"

"I can confirm that I have, at one point in time," he smiles, hoping that he's being discreet. 

Gavroche gives him a look that says he'll be interrogating him on who exactly the crush is some time in the near future, but Combeferre ignores it to ask Azelma truth or dare, because after all, the small Thénardier's only have four rounds of the game before they need to leave.

"I'll take truth," Azelma squeaks. 

"If you could... switch places with someone, anyone for a day," Combeferre asks her, "who would it be?"

"Um. Éponine? So that she can take a break and be a child for once."

Combeferre is pretty sure Courfeyrac is crying, and the group is huddling around Azelma to give her a massive bear hug, and Gavroche even gives his little sister an affectionate pat on the head. It's quite the emotional moment.

"So Joly?" Azelma peers up at the boy in Musichetta's lap. She pauses after he answers with truth, lost, and whispers in Grantaire's ear before coming back to the circle. "If you could cure only one disease in the world, what would it be?"

Joly groans, the question obviously so much more complicated than Azelma had intended it to be, but he keeps it to a short, "Cancer", for the sake of everyone else. 

"Alright, your time's up," Grantaire stands up, ushering Azelma and Gavroche out of the room. "We'll see you in the morning, but take some chocolate with you first." 

When he comes back, Joly's turn is over and now Marius is asking Enjolras truth or dare, to which he stoically chooses dare, and awaits his fate. 

"I dare you to swap shirts with..." Marius looks up at Grantaire coming back into the room, and points at the boy. "Grantaire! Perfect timing." 

The entire room comes to a still for a moment, and Grantaire rips his shirt off before Marius can blink at him in confusion one more time. "Here," he holds out the shirt to Enjolras, looking in the other direction. He then takes Enjolras' shirt and resolutely doesn't sniff it as it goes over his head. 

The air seems to lift after that, and the game continues until Bahorel yawns. "This is boring guys, can't we do something more fun?"

"Any suggestions, then?" Musichetta asks him. 

"Well I mean we just finished the lemonade, so spin the bottle would really be the ideal here." 

"And if you don't want to kiss the other person, you get to take a sip of my magical concoction!" Courfeyrac adds in.

The group groans - Courfeyac's magical concoction is a solid -10000 out of 10 at best; a mixture of almost every ingredient he can find in his kitchen usually consisting of water, milk, salt, pepper, Milo, honey, tomato sauce... and you get the idea. It's just generally not the nicest thing to put to your lips. 

They settle with the game though, because if it's not spin the bottle then Bahorel can and will come up with something worse. So he starts off the game, and the bottle lands on Éponine, who waits for Bahorel to crawl over before giving the circle a show. There's a hoot that comes from Courfeyrac's general vicinity, and the two break up with sly smirks. 

Éponine spins and the bottle lands on Cosette, and she schools her face into something calm before shuffling over to the blonde girl. It's awkward, she thinks, considering Cosette and Marius' obvious flirting, which happens to be the exact person she had a crush on for three whole years in primary school, and if that's not bad enough, Ponine had herself a bit of a crush on not just Marius, but Cosette as well. That was only in year 8 though, and she's definitely over that. The girl was just abnormally nice in their first year of secondary schooling.

Cosette grins at her and pulls her in by the neck to plant a soft kiss on Éponine's lips, and man, if she wasn't over her crush she'd have been screwed.

"Thanks, babe," she whispers as she walks back to her spot in the circle. And she feels good, as if she's been blessed with Cosette's kiss that she now has the courage to ask out the arsehole in Grantaire's band that he's always complaining about. That sure would give him hell. 

Marius has a prominent blush high on his cheeks as Cosette spins the bottle, and it grows worse as it comes to a stop on him.

"Yeah Marius, get  _some_!" Éponine cups two hands around her mouth to cheer, laughter bubbling up. 

When the two break apart, Marius stutters over a "will you go out with me?", to which Cosette predictably says yes, and Grantaire holds out his fist for a fist-bump with Éponine, and they grin. 

Courfeyrac gives the two a big hug and they're all cheering and hollering as softly as possible so as not to disturb the neighbours. 

Marius spins the bottle after that and it lands directly between Joly and Musichetta, who shrug and kiss him on either side of the cheek. After all, would they steal the poor boy's lips when he'd just scored the girl of his life? 

Joly allows Chetta to take the next spin, and it lands on Combeferre, whose head snaps up in surprise. 

Musichetta slinks over to him and settles in his lap with a raised eyebrow. "You alright with this?" she asks him softly first, and receives a slow nod. 

Enjolras watches Courfeyrac's expression closely, and he glances at Grantaire in question with his head cocked in Courfeyrac's direction. Said unruly-haired boy isn't even trying to hide his reaction, a look of mild horror plastered to his face. He's not going to say he's jealous, but when Musichetta returns to her seat Ferre's glasses are askew and his hair is standing up on the left side and it was just generally a not-okay turn of events, although don't ask him why.

Combeferre reaches out a tentative hand to spin the bottle and almost flinches when he notices the direction it's pointing in. "Your magic concoction or..." he trails off, waiting for Courfeyrac to respond. 

"Please," Courfeyrac scoffs, painting a smile back onto his face. "That torture device is for me to use on you guys, not for  _me_ to drink." 

His smile almost slips when Combeferre comes crawling over to him, and then there's a hand on his shoulder, and Courfeyrac's mind momentarily blanches, but then the lips are gone, and so is the hand, and he's spinning the bottle aimlessly trying to get his mind back. 

How darehe, to only give Courfeyrac such a chaste kiss, and how dare he put a stabilising hand on his shoulder and how- 

He swallows when the bottle lands on Feuilly, and he's back to his normal self, because there's no time for thinking about Combeferre right now. 

"What'll it be, my man?" he asks, to which he is answered, "There is absolutely no way I'm drinking the concoction." 

So Courfeyrac makes his way to Feuilly across the circle, when Bahorel suddenly jumps in front of him and yells " _Interception!_ " and turns around to claim Feuilly's lips for his own, yanking the ginger toward him by the shirt. The kiss is bruising, and Feuilly makes a desperate sound in the back of his throat before pushing Bahorel away.

"Oh my God," he says, panting. "You couldn't have waited until we were in private or something? I was going to-" Feuilly cuts himself off with a sigh, "never mind."

"No, what is it? What were you going to do?" Bahorel pushes, and everyone is quiet again, waiting with bated breaths. 

"Ask you out on the 31st, because that's..." 

"The day we met," they say in unison, and Bahorel's lips are back on Feuilly's and it's really not PG anymore and Courfeyrac is  _really_ considering going to join Azelma and Gavroche, while Jehan has begun reciting poetry that sounds eerily alike to Bahorel and Feuilly's life story, and no one can tell if they're Jehan's originals or if they're real poems. 

 

All in all, it's an eventful Easter that Bossuet repeatedly kicks himself for missing, and there's ten times more romance and chocolate than there ever had been on Valentine's Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the most important piece of information we take away from this chapter is that Coles is better than Woolworths. (Well, to be honest I'm more of a 'whichever's closest' person and that just happens to be Coles but let's not get into the details of Australian grocery stores.)


	16. The Adventures of President Baroque Obama

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is the worst day of my life," Grantaire groans at the end of the day.  
> "Are you sure?" Ferre asks sceptically, easily being able to recall plenty more days that could fit the description.  
> "Yes, I'm embouchure."
> 
> Marius spits out his water all over his case, which is thankfully waterproof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter in which I mourn the shortness of my holidays, and also the fact that I, much like the Amis in this chapter, don't get an extra day of holidays even though it's pupil free day, because I have band rehearsal. Yay! :3

"Guys I... I never thought I'd say this, but I think we're all dead," Courfeyrac says to his friends. "There is no other explanation, than that of the fact that we have all completed our life on Earth and have descended to Hell. And by God, none of us even made it to Heaven! Look at all of us heathens."

"I second your observation," Grantaire sighs. "Éponine kept me up until four o'clock last night, knowing that I would descend and that she would remain alive, if only for a few moments longer. Those damn Thénardier's just always know how to play the upper hand." 

Combeferre walks up to the group yawning. He goes to rub at his eyes and instead smudges a handprint on his glasses, forgetting that they were perched on his nose. 

"For once I am inclined to agree with you both," he says. "Enjolras and I may or may not have planned the entirety of next term's project for Thursday's meeting."

"Enjolras, who is not here because he was either accepted into Heaven unlike the rest of us barbaric hoons, or God decided to spare his beautiful life." 

"Oh stop overreacting, the lot of you!" Feuilly shakes is head. "Enjolras is, much like the rest of us, not dead, Grantaire." 

Grantaire stares at the ginger-haired boy in wonder, mouth slowly opening. His expression looks rather entranced, as he scratches his head. "I don't comprehend."

"We have neither ascended nor descended, although as mere mortals it is a fate we cannot avoid should the time come," Jehan places a hand on Grantaire's shoulder, patting it comfortingly. "Perhaps a band rehearsal on a day wherein every other member of the school is still on holidays can be considered as being as close to Hell as we have gotten so far in our lives, but we are very much alive in this moment." 

"Say what, buddy?" Bahorel says, furrowing his eyebrows. "I'm too tired for this. It's before 9 in the morning." 

"We're not dead, we're just at school on pupil free day because we have a band rehearsal," Feuilly explains, to which Bahorel responds by wiping Feuilly's mouth with his shirt sleeve before planting a wet kiss on them, claiming that he "can't have such horrendous words coming out of my boyfriend's mouth". 

"You can't succumb to Hell's whispers, Feuilly," Bahorel mumbles. "Don't let them take you away." 

One would wish that Jehan and Feuilly were joking, but the cruel fact of the matter is that they were being truthful in every way possible. They are quite unfortunately not dead, however many times Bossuet would wish he was, having already almost gouged his own eye out with a mallet; and they are at school on pupil free day for a band rehearsal, no thanks to Mr. Shizuka, who decided that the music department should have a concert on the first week back at school - a harrowing idea that was beyond any of the students participating. 

"Hey guys!" Grantaire calls, whipping around with a mask tied around his face, eye holes crudely cut out. "I took it upon myself to visit you poor dying souls on a fourteen hour trip from the White House," he says, "I'm President Obama. Baroque Obama." 

"That was a terrible joke and I'm ashamed to be laughing so hard," Joly says through giggles. "I need a drink to calm myself down. I'll be Bach." 

-«•»-

"Welcome back to Term 2, band!" the conductor yells out to the room, where students are slowly filtering in. "As you're all aware our concert is this Friday, which means we cannot waste any time today! I trust you've all been practicing on the holidays, so we'll start with a canon of the B flat Major scale, concert pitch! Don't forget the Pyramid of Balance we talked about at the end of last term, brass it is essential that you hold a strong bass that the flutes can't overpower! They are only the sprinkles on top!" 

They speed through the warm-up and proceed to tuning, and the conductor visibly shudders when she reaches the flutes. 

"Courfeyrac, listen with your ears! That note is so sharp it's not even a B flat anymore. I'm going to need you to pull out." 

There's a snort from further back in the band room, no doubt belonging to either Bahorel or Grantaire, but Courfeyrac resolutely ignores it to adjust his instrument.

"No, not that far! You're too flat now!" the conductor shakes her head, and is about to move onto the next flute when her peripheral vision latches onto something in the distance. 

Her head whips around, and she spots Mykynleigh sitting idly in the trombone section. "Is that crossed legs I see?" she hisses at the sneaker-clad feet that are crossed at the ankles. "That's ten pushups, Mykynleigh. You know the rules." 

Mykynleigh trudges down to the front of the band room and gets down onto his knees, the whole band counting down his pushups. He grumbles as he returns to his seat, and the conductor catches his sleeve. 

"That'll be five jumping jacks," she smiles, before her attention turns back to the band, and she finishes tuning. 

-«•»-

Their lunch break is well-earned, if Musichetta could so say herself, as she flops down onto the grass with her sandwich. 

"That was ridiculous. She's even worse than usual!" she exclaims. "'Don't breathe in the middle of the crescendo!' 'Intonation saxophones, you sound sloppy next to the trumpets!' 'What's happening? Musichetta, I'm blaming you!'" 

Bahorel scoffs at Chetta's attempt at mimicking the conductor's voice and chips in his two cents. "'That's not the rhythm, look at your music! Say _"I am so cool, am so cool, am so cool"_!' 'Brass and bass drum, you're supposed to be the beating heart of the last surviving warrior, you sound like a 100 year-old grandfather in cardiac arrest!' 'The Pyramid of Balance, ladies!'"

"'Flutes will you shut up! Nobody wants you right now!'" Courfeyrac adds. "'You all have the same rhythm here and you don't sound right! Sizzle with me! Tss-tss-tss-tss, tss-tss-tss-tss!'"

"You all think that's bad but she's always the worst with the percussion," Bossuet complains.

"That's because you're always the worst in the band," Chetta rolls her eyes. 

"Yes well, we don't exactly appreciate 'Where's my cowbell?!' every five seconds, and 'FINGER CYMBALS!' has been said enough times that I'm pretty sure she's going to get it inscribed on her gravestone."

"But I live for the moment when she said 'I can't hear the tim tam, where is it?' when she couldn't hear me playing the tam tam," Grantaire snorts at the memory. "Speaking of, I brought tim tams to wallow in our sorrows with." 

"And I brought Caramello Koalas because I'm an angel," Cosette bats her eyelashes. "Actually I brought them because they were on sale, but that's not the point. The point is that we have a lot of chocolate." 

They sit and engage themselves in some serious chocolate-eating business, chatting away their lunch break until the conductor calls for their presence, and the group scuttles their way back into the band room. 

-«•»-

"Jehan I swear to all God if I catch you with your elbows on your knees while you're playing the oboe again I will stab you with this baton," the conductor threatens, waving said stick in the air. "That posture isn't going to do your sound any good, and I know it's been a long day but if you can just hold on for one more hour, that would be great." 

Needless to say, Jehan's back is ram-rod straight for the remainder of the rehearsal, and Cecily learns how to count to four after being yelled at four times. ("That note was so short your instrument was already in your lap by beat three! It's one, two, _three_ , _four_!")

They're into the last ten minutes of rehearsal when she shakes her baton and sighs. "That was a four, guys. A four out of one hundred! This isn't anywhere near performance standard." 

And after a gruelling ten minutes more, the day concludes with: "Better, that was a 9," and a pause before the continuation of the sentence, "still out of 100." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a certified music nerd with terrible music puns stocked in my arsenal.  
> Also, every single word that comes out of the conductor's mouth is something that I have witnessed in my life, meaning yes we did have a conductor who made us do pushups if we crossed our ankles, and my conductor did threaten to stab (a clarinet player, not an oboe player) when she saw her elbows on her knees.


	17. Stranger Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're not strangers, but the lock down alarm almost goes off because the bastards don't know how to dress like normal human beings, and their "war paint" eyeliner makes them doubly suspicious. Éponine will refrain from calling them a power couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for like... the kind of icky stuff you see in the news? Just made up titles of news articles, like missing people and murders. I'm sorry. If you're not ok with that don't scroll down and just search for the line _"Now these two suspicious people walking through the school gates, they're not strangers, and they're not dangerous either."_

Stranger Danger.

It's a common theme taught amongst young children, despite the fact that the world has repeatedly shown its inhabitants that an acquaintance is just as, if not more, dangerous. The headlines say it all:  _"Girl Killed by Best Friend's Father"_ ,  _"Dayal Siblings Kidnapper Revealed: Next Door Neighbour"_  and so on and so forth in a macabre line of tragedies. 

Now these two suspicious people walking through the school gates, they're not strangers, and they're not dangerous either. 

Actually that's a lie, they can be pretty dangerous people, but at this point in time they're just two bastards who don't know how to dress like normal human beings with "war paint" eyeliner that makes them doubly suspicious, who are not at the school for dangerous reasons. Really, they are just trying to do a good deed. 

But nonetheless, they make their way into the school and are met with: 

> _"Attention. This is a code red. Repeat: this is a code red."_

Montparnasse sighs, he remembers the lock down drills from years ago; red for legitimate dangers - lights out, curtains closed, locked doors and everyone hiding under the desks, yellow for caution - everyone be alert, lock the doors but continue with class, like a venomous snake loose in the school, or some other stupid thing that never happens, and then code green for when everything's safe again. 

> _"This is a code red. A code red."_

Honestly, by this point Montparnasse is more exasperated than anything, as he rolls his eyes and heads for student reception to clear everything up. Provided he remembers where that office is. 

"Do you happen to pertain in your mind the location of the student reception, good sir?" Montparnasse asks the man accompanying him in his snobbiest accent possible, straightening his posture so that he stands tall. 

"Are you kidding me? I was out of this hell hole three years before you were. Don't got a clue where anything is," the man replies, but he's leading Montparnasse to the right all the while. 

The school is quiet, save for the obnoxious lock down alarm, a soft wind blowing the leaves that the maintenance men missed when they were raking the school. Nothing's changed, Parnasse thinks, as he's hit by a sickening wave of nostalgia - the kind that leaves him feeling sappy. It's not his fault that the familiar smell of burnt toast still lingers where it continuously wafts from the tuckshop, and it's not his fault that the stupid little pentagram he engraved into one of the bricks in the school's main courtyard hasn't been noticed and removed. 

"Please ma'am, we're only here to pick up Éponine after school, no need for an alarm," Montparnasse takes off his hat with a slight bow. 

"Oh Romeo, we should have known it would be you," the receptionist huffs a soft laugh, missing the way the boy flinches in distaste at the use of his frivolous excuse of a first name. 

"Forgotten me so soon, Ms. Ungaretti? If I had feelings I would be so offended," comes a sound from the shadow behind Montparnasse.

The receptionist turns to the second man in the room, and shakes her head with a fond smile, earrings waving at the movement.

"None would dare to do so, Mr. Claquesous." 

"So did you miss us?" Montparnasse throws Ms. Ungaretti a devious smile, and the three pass the last half an hour of school time.

-«•»-

"I can't believe you guys set off the lock down alarm. Why would you even think to come dressed like that?" Éponine says incredulously, throwing her arms up in disbelief.

"This is how we always dress, Ponine. I don't follow what you're trying to point out," Montparnasse replies seriously, "also we bothered to come and pick you up for work, so I don't know what you're complaining about."

"And if I do remember correctly everybody adores lock down, just as much as for some unknown reason we all adore blackouts," Claquesous adds.

The group's pretty sure that that's just Claquesous's inexplicable adoration for the darkness talking but at the same time, the man did have a point.

It's at that moment that Jehan emerges from the rush of students, girlfriend in tow, and his face lights up when he sees the unexpected guests. 

"Monty, is that you?" 

Éponine splutters at the use of the nickname and looks to Grantaire, question written all over her face. 

"Oh this is perfect, I actually brought the plants to school today so that Autumn and I could split them between us to look after until I had the time to go and see you, but there's no need, you're right here!" the boy exclaims, pulling out pots of succulents and cacti endlessly from his school bag. 

"Jehan's my dealer," Montparnasse coughs lowly to Éponine, accepting the gifts from Jehan who's now on to babbling cheerfully about how "Autumn and I took the liberty of naming two of the plants, we hope you don't mind but we just couldn't resist. For your sake, I haven't actually baptised them so you're free to change their names if you don't feel it fitting..." 

"Parnasse has a plant dealer and his plant dealer is Jehan," Grantaire can't help but laugh, soon in stitches at the absurdity of it all, hand heavily resting on Bahorel's shoulder for support. 

Montparnasse turns to Claquesous once he has all of his plants with something of an apologetic smile on his face, to which the older man just sighs, and picks up his share of the potted plants and trudges towards the car after Montparnasse.

To his retreating form Grantaire cups a hand to his mouth and yells, "O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?"

Montparnasse, in a purely respectable and adult-like manner, throws Grantaire the bird over his shoulder, somehow without dropping the plants and answers with his usual response: "Ask my idiot parents!"

-«•»-

"I can't believe this. I thought Gertrude and Slagathor would be enough, Parnasse," Claquesous mutters. 

"What, are you kidding? They're so tiny they fit in the same pot, and their roots will never even grow long enough for me to need to repot them, of course Gertrude and Slagathor aren't enough!" 

Claquesous unlocks the car and begins placing the plants in the boot of the car, when he notices that two of the pots are labelled. He turns them around, assuming that the two are the plants Jehan and his seasonal girlfriend had named, and almost goes to stab himself with the plants, which are consequently a pair of cacti.

One pot is home to a label that clearly reads "Romeo" in a beautifully hand-written script, with the other labelled "Juliet", which is then crossed out to hold his own name. 

"Parnasse, this is unacceptable. I won't allow these plants to be housed under our roof," he says gruffly, shoving the pots into the man's arms. 

"Embarrassed, baby?" Montparnasse purrs. "I think it's very poetic, the prickliest of the cacti have been named after us. We should thank Jehan, Sous. It was very thoughtful of him to name his meanest looking plants after us."

"Mine says  _Juliet_ ," Claquesous hisses. 

Parnasse chuckles, placing the rest of the plants into the car boot and pulling Claquesous close. 

"It's close enough to your name, isn't it?" he says, then promptly places his lips upon the other man's before he can express his outrage. 

-«•»-

Éponine is twenty minutes late to her shift, b ut... so is her boss and her coworker, so she supposes it's alright.

And for the record, it's certainly just a coincidence, and nothing to do with the fact that said boss and coworker got distracted making out when they went to pick her up from school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't supposed to write this today... Just everyone pray I don't die at band rehearsal tomorrow :3  
>  ~~(asthma band represent!)~~


	18. Tyrannosaurus-rekt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intensive dive-in of the lives of band geek revolutionaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is terribly written and not proofread or beta'd and I'm sorry. I'm not really in the mindset to be writing, but I've been in a foul mood tonight for no apparent reason, and I wanted some kind of release. Hope it's somewhat enjoyable all the same!
> 
> Updates may be slow from here on out, so sorry about that.

"A lot of you have been absent in our meetings the first few weeks of this term, so first of all we'd like to say welcome back, and we sincerely hope you had a wonderful Easter break," Enjolras clasps his hands together. "For those of you who have been here, you will know that with the Year 12 Formal fast approaching, this term we will be working on getting rid of the stigma around attending stag to the Formal!" 

Combeferre takes over from there, standing up. "Some of you may be unaware, but last year there was a petition to allow same-sex partners at the Formal which was passed, and that was actually what inspired this group to be created. And however wonderful it is that we are now able to take whomever we choose to this event, there is an undeniable amount of shame attached to going to the Formal alone. Many students feel the need to desperately seek a partner whether they like the person or not, and this is turning out to be doing more harm than good. Why waste your time taking someone you won't enjoy spending time with? And why can't students enjoy the night as a time to be with their friends; why enforce having a partner?" 

"Which is why," Enjolras says, staring down his friends, "it would make more sense if there were more of us going stag, but no, you all miraculously got into relationships with each other!" 

There's a startled laugh that resounds in the room, drawn from the unexpected joke their leader has made, and the meeting continues smoothly with every student working towards their new goal. 

Of their friendship group, only Enjolras, Grantaire, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are going alone. Even Éponine is taking someone, although Grantaire had vehemently opposed it when she had told him the news. ("No you didn't! Not _that_  arsehole." "Too bad, he said yes and he's hot.")

Not that they mind of course, their whole aim is to remove the stigma surrounding it, but still... a little more support, friends? 

-«•»-

"As you may all remember," the conductor says as she bustles into the rehearsal room for the afternoon, "today we're going to be collaborating with the strings to make a Symphony Orchestra to perform at our next concert."

There are some groans, a few cheers, and one talented little dipshit who stares longingly at her two instruments that are in the opposite categories, wondering if she should choose to play as a part of the band or the strings. 

"Now, this does mean there will be some shuffling around! We'll be trying to fit onto the stands so that the strings can take the front part of the room - no complaining! While we wait for the strings players to get here we'll set up the room for them, and sort out our seating, and then you can unpack your instruments."

It's a ten-minute awkward shuffle until the room is ready, and the first new addition to their orchestra is Floréal, a sparkling blue fibreglass violin case slung over her shoulder like a backpack, and her music folder in her hands. 

"That's Floréal!" Musichetta exclaims in a whisper to Joly as they assemble their instruments. "She's literally a music-making genius. Apparently she's already got her LMus in violin?!" 

"Floréal, it's been too long!" Grantaire shouts from his perch on the timpani stool at the very back of the percussion section, and makes his way down to the girl. "You talented little butternut pumpkin, how have you been, my darling?"

She gives Grantaire a shy hug and places her case onto the ground to unpack her violin as she talks.

"I've been as good as one can be with the last year of school kicking their butt," she says with a huff of a laugh. "And you?" 

"Absolutely brilliant! But at the same time I'm dying." 

Some ways away behind them Jehan is gawping like a fish, looking between the two.

"Grantaire is  _friends_ with number one violin prodigy Floréal Lefebvre?" he says, just as star-struck as the rest of the room, who watches as the dainty Year 12 rosins her bow and tunes her violin, still chatting away with Grantaire. 

The rest of the strings players start to filter in after that, obviously unfazed by the presence of the so esteemed Floréal Lefebvre, and perhaps more than miffed at her unending supply of talent, along with their inability to hate the soft-spoken girl. 

"Alright Symphony Orchestra!" their conductor yells. "Now that we're all here, it's time to get started! You'll notice that music becomes so much more exciting when you've got more instruments like this, and we have hand-picked some crowd favourites that we're sure you will all know. However, upon Mr. Shizuka's request we will be holding auditions for a soloist to do a concerto!" 

"Oh come on, it's going to be a violin concerto with Floréal anyway, why try?" Cecily rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath, while Jehan sits and quietly chants under his breath "Mozart Oboe Concerto in C major, Köchel 314" again and again, as if him saying the words repeatedly will get him the part.

"We really encourage all of you to try out for this, and you can either come to us with a concerto of your personal choice, or we will find one suitable for you once you have been chosen. Good luck, and without further ado, onto our newest pieces!" 

The conductor's yelling doesn't end at that announcement though, and God they should have known that double the conductors would mean double the screaming. They're literally  _on fire_ , arms flapping wildly as they conduct the monstrosity that is the newly-composed Symphony Orchestra. 

"Where's my thunder, Azelma? I need you pounding those drums!" their conductor points out to the back. 

It's then followed by the strings conductor, who walks around slapping student's wrists and hissing, "That vibrato is sloppy! Fix it up."

No sooner than later it's become more of a screaming match than a rehearsal at all.

 

"Open your headspace, lower brass! I need these crotchets as fat as you can make them!"

"That's not how you do spiccato! What are you, 5 years old?"

"Giudi shut  _up_ you're the only saxophone I can hear!" 

"Cello's what was  _that_?"

"What is this, asthma band? Where's your tone?"  
(To which there is a small answer from the back of the flute section, where Harper squeaks "...yes")

"First violin's low two on the E string, read the music!"

 

There are some more amusing ones that follow their five-minute toilet break, including but not exclusive to:

"Don't be mezzo, that's the worst thing to be! If the music says fortissimo you  _be_ fortissimo!" then followed by,

"No, no, see you need that bounce in the sound, band. Come on, say 'bum' for me." ("Bummmm.")

"Black notes are better than white notes, they're more important! It's a fact of life. That means if you've got a semibreve while someone else has quavers, you get out of the way! The people with the quavers are more important!" 

And Thomas's personal favourite of, "You all have the same rhythm here, which means you need to get it right. Everyone say 'Angela, Angela!'", and obviously Thomas De'Angela does nothing but bow and thank the orchestra for chanting his name, until he gets slapped upside the head by Albert, and the orchestra continues on with more "Angela, Angela, subdivide-ka-ti! Subdivide-ka-ti!" because they're musicians, and musicians are crazy. 

Bahorel on the other hand would argue that the best part of the rehearsal was when Mykynliegh got Goddamn put in his place when he complained about how hard it was to change valves in the middle of a piece, and their conductor just yelled back, "You know what Mykynleigh? Practice!" 

Chetta puts down a hard bargain of saying that Giudi's moment of shame was the best thing to happen all afternoon. That was of course the episode in which Giudi had been warming up before rehearsal began by playing a piece, and the conductor had walked in, taken one look at her and said "Well if you could practice in tune..." 

("Get  _rekt_ , Giuditta."  
"Tyrannosaurus-rekt, bitch.") 

It's an unforgettable rehearsal to say the least, particularly when they go to pack up their instruments and Courfeyrac immediately begins complaining about how he was "blessed with a twerking music stand", which was totally worth saying to see Marius splutter and drop his reed on the floor. 

"I'm serious though guys, twerking music stands are the bane of my existence. It's like, the screw at the bottom is as tight as it can be, why are you still wobbling? You get what I mean though, right? It's totally not okay, this school needs to invest in some new music stands." 

The day would have ended well if things had stopped there, but no, Bahorel just had to have the last word with a vulgar music pun as he nudges Bossuet and raises his eyebrows suggestively before pointing his head towards Musichetta and asking, "Eyyyy baby, did you get De _bussy_?" And thankfully it earns him a right hard punch to the gut by numerous people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things to clear up (in case you weren't sure) in the orchestra section of this chapter:
> 
>   1. LMus, commonly written as LMusA, stands for Licentiate Diploma of Music (Australian), and it's incredibly hard to achieve! As per the AMEB (Australian Music Examinations Board), the grades go from 1 to 8, then some instruments have a Certificate of Performance (one of them being Piano, I would know because this is what I'm going for next year), and then it goes AMusA which is an Associate Diploma, and finally LMusA. Uhhhh, yeah.
>   2. The Oboe Concerto that Jehan so badly wants to play is my favourite oboe piece ever... ([link here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=atfKC9RDsR0)) and it's very nice! I would mention other concertos, but I didn't want to overwhelm you with my music nerdiness.
>   3. "Subdivide-ka-ti" refers to the French way of saying rhythms, and the "subdivide" is cutting up the "tim" of the "tim-ka-ti", which for those of you who aren't aware of this French system but know of music, stands for "dotted quaver, semiquaver, quaver".
>   4. Giudi is pronounced like "Judy", short for Giuditta I just felt like being fancy-ish
>   5. If any of you have ever used an old Manhasset music stand, you will know what I'm talking about when Courfeyrac says "twerking music stand". There's a screw at the bottom that supposedly loosens and tightens how the stand stays upright, but there's a point in time where no matter how tightly it's screwed, the stand is always wobbly.
>   6. Thank Sally O'Bagel for the vulgar joke at the end... For those of you who didn't get it, the usage of the French composer's surname alludes to "the pussy". Terrible. I hate you, Sally.
> 



	19. Kings and Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Welcome to 17th Century Paris, the city awaits you," Courfeyrac begins the opening speech of the night, the doors to the room opening to reveal the committee's hard work. 
> 
> "Here in your _palais_ , you are the Kings and Queens, the rulers of the night!" Amelia says, handing her microphone over to the next committee member. 
> 
> "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your last year, so make it yours! This is your Formal, and _your night_!"
> 
> The students cheer, the room erupting into applauses and wolf-whistles, and everyone takes their seats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot has happened during my absence on here, and I really do apologise about that. However, since the last chapter, your girl has had her Formal, been emotionally ruined by Captain America: Civil War, completed her Grade 6 violin exam, come third in a band competition, and finished two pieces of assessment. We're not here to talk about that though, because there's a chapter to read!
> 
> Thank you very much name-buddy (everyone's fave [Elise](http://just-french-me-up.tumblr.com/)) for the formal theme! 17th Century extravagance is perfect, and damn, that would've been a cool theme for my formal.

"Jesus Christ," Éponine mutters, throwing another tissue in the bin. "Cosette!" she yells. "Cosette come here and make my make up not look like angsty emo shit!"

Cosette, to her credit, comes rushing from downstairs where she's taken over the first level bathroom in an attempt to do her own hair ("I do my own hair every day, what could be so hard?"), blonde fly-away curls springing this way and that, the sink surrounded by hairspray, wax, mousse, bobby pins, curling irons and the lot of it, complete with an old iPad playing a hair tutorial over and over like a broken record. 

"Let's see, what have we to work with?" Cosette pops her head into the upstairs bathroom. "My, you are quite the vision."

"I look like a sewer rat," Éponine says bluntly.

"Well fear not my darling, I'll be your fairy godmother tonight," the blonde replies, starting to hum the tune to  _Bring Me Back to Life_ as she removes the thick line of eyeliner.

May it be pointed out, that had they not wanted to be money-savers, they could easily have booked an appointment to at least be aided by a professional in their areas of weakness. Take for instance Musichetta, who is... not a good example because she's great at making herself look bomb as hell, she just wanted to get herself pampered. And who would blame her, really, it  _is_ the Formal after all, and Chetta will take any chance to make it the best night of her high school life. 

-«•»-

As a part of the Formal Committee, Courfeyrac had been bustling around for months, but now, standing at the venue and looking at the fruits of his works, he doesn't regret being part of the committee at all. 

The room is fabulous, if the committee does say so themselves; golden chandeliers, decadent red upholstery, and each table adorned with roses (fake, of course, you've got to make the budget cuts somewhere). Courfeyrac even managed to pull some family strings to have a carriage brought into the courtyard that everyone could take photographs with, historically accurate to a tee and with roses threaded through the wheels (still fake, Courfeyrac will not settle for wilting flowers when some hyper-realistic polyester ones will last the night). Unfortunately Amelia hadn't done her job and there were no horses to pull the carriage but... he's not complaining. 

The students come in flocks in limousines and maxi-taxi's alike, all flowing dresses and crisp suits at 6:00pm for pre-drinks, already lining up for photographs with the carriage. 

Courfeyrac smiles, everyone looks stunning (unfortunately even the people he doesn't like), but he's so lost in his own world looking at all the dresses that he doesn't realise someone's approached him until there's a tap on his shoulder, to which he starts by jumping double his height into the air before whirling around. 

"Fu-dge!" he just nearly misses swearing in front of Enjolras. "Warn a guy, would you?"

"Everything looks spectacular, Courf. And the carriage is absolutely beautiful," Combeferre compliments him from beside Enjolras. "However did you get something like that here? It looks just like Louis XIV's carriage from-"

"Yes, well. Extravagant family members and such come in handy sometimes," Courfeyrac cuts him off with a curt smile, desperately trying to stop a blush from rising to his cheeks. 

"Are we right to think that inside is even more spectacular?" Enjolras asks, for once wishing Grantaire was already here to shoo away the already-building tension. 

"You bet your arse you should," Courf grins, and then he's off to greet some teachers and parents.

-«•»-

"Welcome to 17th Century Paris, the city awaits you," Courfeyrac begins the opening speech of the night, the doors to the room opening to reveal the committee's hard work. 

"Here in your _palais_ , you are the Kings and Queens, the rulers of the night!" Amelia says, handing her microphone over to the next committee member. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your last year, so make it yours! This is your Formal, and  _your night_!"

The students cheer, the room erupting into applauses and wolf-whistles, and everyone takes their seats. 

Courfeyrac places his microphone back on the stand and walks over to his own table filled with his friends, sitting before his name-card. He remembers the struggle they had printing those: discovering the perfect font, finding out that they needed to pay for its usage, uncovering a font that was impossibly better than the last, and then realising that they couldn't type every student's name because it didn't have certain letters. But now, with the flourishing script caressing his name, the customised masquerade-esque masks that they had spent hours making for each and every student, the night's menu before him and the lights low, he almost can't believe he's made it so far. 

"We're in Year 12," he whispers to himself, emotions flooding him instantly, but in a moment there's a comforting hand on his shoulder, just like there was on that night in the Easter holidays when Combeferre ki-

Wait a second...

"I swear you weren't supposed to be sitting next to me. Did someone screw up the table seatings?"

"This is how it was when I came in," Combeferre chuckles. "I'm sorry, I have no idea."

Across from Combeferre sits Enjolras, who looks to Grantaire with a satisfied smirk that is missed by Courfeyrac, who dismisses the table setting as someone accidentally swapping Enjolras and Combeferre's name-cards.

Bahorel gives a low whistle, picking up his menu. "Roasted Darling Downs beef fillet, duck fat roasted potatoes with maitre d'hotel butter and red wine jus?!"

"That is so not how you pronounce half of those words,"Feuilly laughs from his side, ruffling the boy's hair.  

The other option on the menu is neatly printed as  _Inglewood chicken breast with paprika roasted potato, smokey tomato relish and dijon white wine sauce_ , which Feuilly is sure Bahorel would have had less of a problem trying to get around his mouth - no French words to trip him up. 

The meal is so perfect that Bossuet almost cries into his beef, Musichetta reaching over to pat him on the head. Éponine takes many photos, having cleared her phone just for the occasion, grumbling about how Azelma had demanded full documentation of the night, although she looks like she's enjoying herself, and Jehan's dressed to the nines taking the theme to heart, although of course without the ridiculous wig; his own flowing locks don't deserve to be holed up beneath a periwig, thank you very much. 

When dinner is much finished and the chatter begins to die down, the school captains take to the stage at the front of the room, tapping the microphone once, twice, then clearing their throats. 

"Now I don't know about you but I think that was the best dinner I've ever had!" the captains say. "But, as is our school's tradition, it's time for our talent show! So could our contestants please excuse themselves from the tables to prepare, and could our formal committee members come and get the voting slips to hand out to the room. Remember you can vote for a first, second and third place, and we'll come and collect them after all the performances to release the winner of the 2016 Formal Talent Quest at the end of the night where we will get an encore performance before we leave!" 

When Enjolras turns to his left Grantaire is gone, perhaps to the toilet, so he reaches for his glass for a drink instead. 

Before long it's the first act of the night, and Bahorel snarls when Mykynleigh walks onto the stage with his trombone. 

"Good evening everyone," the boy wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. "I'd like to open the night with your favourite song." 

Mykynleigh puts his trombone to his lips, and begins playing a tune familiar to everyone in the room, which is soon followed by two of his friends walking across the stage with microwave ovens awkwardly taped to their fronts, continuously slamming the doors. The room roars in laughter as the act comes to a close, and the captains come back on stage.

"Thank you Mykynleigh. That was "When mum's not home". Next up we have Sweeney and the Scissors, a newly-formed punk band!" 

"Please welcome to the stage, Lydia Warwick who will be singing a rendition of Summer Nights with... a mystery partner!"

"Take it away, Giuditta!"

"Well it's not a night without Careless Whispers, is it? Next to the stage is George Clooney- wait what? George Campbell, sorry."

"A... gymnastics performance from Liam Dair?"

"Give it up for PizzaRat!"

Enjolras' eyebrows furrow. Grantaire still isn't back in his seat yet, but he can't ask anyone because they're all too engrossed in the spectacle before them. 

Then from the stage comes, "and it's the moment you've all been waiting for, our very own Floréal Lefebvre who will be performing the first movement of Spring, the Beethoven Violin Sonata #5 in F Major, Opus 24!"

The grand piano that had been lurking in the shadows of the stage is rolled out and Floréal steps out, followed by...  _Grantaire?_

Floréal gives her usual shy smile, and asks for the microphone from the school captain. 

"Thank you for that, but before I start I'd like you to all thank Grantaire for agreeing to be my accompanist for tonight, when we play the piece you'll know that this was just as much of an effort for him as it was for me." 

And without enough warning for Enjolras's heart to catch up, Floréal has the violin beneath her chin and Grantaire is accompanying her, his soft curls swaying ever so slightly as he moves with the music. Enjolras doesn't even have the heart listen to the girl's sparkling vibrato or heart-wrenching grasp of the story of the song, because every fibre of his being is focused on Grantaire: Grantaire, who leans forwards as he pushes into the first note of the phrase, and Grantaire, who effortlessly plays through the running notes of the accompaniment, and Grantaire, who smiles at Floréal every time they breathe together to keep the song in time, his white teeth flashing under the light of the stage. 

Enjolras didn't even know Grantaire could play the piano. He'd always thought he was just a percussionist. And all of a sudden he's hit with how much he doesn't know about the boy. Sure he's known Grantaire since Year 6, has wanted to " _know_ " him since then but... 

He misses the last performance, and doesn't realise that Grantaire's back in his seat until the DJ's half way through some silly shove-that-doof-doof-up-your-clacker hard pumping electronic bass song and everyone's up and out of their seats and onto the dance floor. 

"You gonna hit the dance floor and show us your moves?" Grantaire nudges him in the side like as if he hadn't just accompanied a professional-standard violin sonata. 

"Uh, yeah," Enjolras replies, snapped out of his stupor. "Yeah." 

-«•»-

There are photos, there are fancy mocktails with umbrellas, there are photobooths, and mini desserts, but most of all there is Courfeyrac and Combeferre getting it the hell  _on_ on the dance floor. 

It is strictly safe for work material, of course, there are teachers supervising the event and no sensible student wants a teacher tapping them on the shoulder in the middle of a heady make-out session out on the D-floor. 

Although it appears not many people are sensible students tonight, which leaves Joly with a perpetual double chin and furrowed eyebrows as he tries to manoeuvre his dance moves around the sweaty bodies attached at the lips. 

And the sheer number of people's hands on their date's butts is... well, it's bad enough that Enjolras almost considers it as their next cause to work towards at Thursday's meetings, just for one second. 

Unfortunately Enjolras's death glare seems to slowly break apart the progress Operation Courferre had made, and the two avoid each other like the black plague for the rest of the night, always on the other side of their group's dancing circle. 

It's aching feet and raw throats before the night is over, Cosette's bare feet in Marius's lap as he attempts to massage them back to life, and the school captains are back on stage, ballot box cleared and the winner of the Formal Talent Quest decided. 

"It's been a stunning night and all, but we know all you want to do is get onto the winner of our Talent Quest. So, let's have a round of applause for our formal committee while our contestants come up to the stage."

"And the winner is, drum roll please," and everyone's banging their fists on the tables and stomping their feet, "Floréal Lefebvre and her accompanist Rémy Grantaire!" 

Grantaire's face looks shocked for one moment before he has his arms wrapped tightly around Floréal, the small girl clearly flustered with her win although it seemed like much a unanimous vote if anything were to be derived from the screams and cheers. 

"We hope you have an encore piece lined up, but if not the same piece would be fine because let's face it: we all enjoyed it!" 

Grantaire steps forward to take the microphone in place of the still-flustered violinist, and gives his award-winning smile. "We can't guarantee we'll sound any good, but we were trying out a piece just for fun the other day, it's pretty awesome and we think you might like it, if Mademoiselle Lefebvre would so wish to play it with me?" 

Floréal nods enthusiastically, then runs backstage to get out her violin for the last performance of the night. 

"This is Zigeunerweisen, by Pablo de Sarasate," he says, then takes a seat at the piano. 

 

If Enjolras was lost after Beethoven, he was most certainly not prepared for Sarasate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would say the equivalent to the Formal that most of you will be familiar with is Prom. It's not quite the same, and I've taken a bit of creative liberty with it to add fun little things that I hope are more enjoyable to read than just plain old dancing and taking photos! (And food, because food is the most important always. A fun fact(?): the menu in this story is the same menu from my formal!)
> 
> I probably should have proofread this. Sorry.


	20. Combeferre+Courfeyrac is Simple Mothmatics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Operation Moth-erhecker and the CourfMeister is a go. I repeat, Operation Moth-erhecker and the CourfMeister is a go."  
> "Shut the hell up, Grantaire."  
> "What? At least I didn't swear this time."

Winter, the calendar says officially, although it's 28 degrees out and every student is sweating in their school blazers. It's only "winter" for approximately 5 days of the entire year, but what can you say, those bloody Australian's, always desperate to get a taste of the bitter cold that bites, never mind that their definition of bitter cold is a minimum of 10 degrees; or as Courfeyrac would say, a temperature the French would be stripping themselves down to their underwear and jumping into the ocean at - a clear exaggeration but... not by much. 

At the lunch table Cosette nurses a Marius who's blue in the face, ready to throw up after Éponine went into a little too much detail about the nature of entomology as a forensic science. Or maybe it was blood spatter analysis. Or ballistics. Or toxicology. Or- you know what, it was all of the above. 

Sitting at the other end of their tables, Combeferre munches idly at a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel. It's already been two weeks since the Formal, but it feels like yesterday for him; just how  _close_ Courfeyrac had been. 

For all of what felt like 5 seconds, until the boy realised his mistake and backed off for the rest of the night.

It's not hard to notice the slight change in the group dynamic now that everyone has a significant other. It's subtle, but it's definitely there, and Combeferre would be lying if he said it didn't make him uncomfortable. In fact, if he's to be completely honest, he's starting to become irate. It's irrational, he's well aware - it makes him angry that he's mad, but the constant buzz of happiness that he doesn't even have the taste of... 

He looks up at Éponine.

He's not sure how she handled it, having unrequited crushes on the exact two people who are currently dating. He'll need to ask her some time about her coping mechanisms, and how she managed to get over them. Ferre contemplates walking over to her side of the table, but his train of thought is disrupted by a petulant voice. 

"I really didn't realise how everyone had just miraculously paired off until the formal," Courfeyrac pouts, crossing his arms. "Literally, we did all that fighting around the stigma of going stag to the formal, and yet the majority of us had someone to go with." 

"You had plenty of girls flocking to you trying to hint that they wanted you to ask them," Enjolras says. "You spent an entire night complaining about it to me."

And it's true, Courfeyrac had wasted the entirety of a Friday after school going on about the list of girls who had tried to get him to go to the Formal with them. 

"Yeah, but none of them actually  _liked_ me. Everyone here's got significant others and I'm just sitting here wondering if someone's ever going to love me," he sighs dramatically. 

"Bloody hell, are we really doing this now?" Combeferre mutters under what he thinks is his breath, but Courfeyrac's head snaps up at the words.

"What's got you all salty this time, Combeferre?" he sneers. Courfeyrac is always sneering at Combeferre these days. 

"Christ above, you're always complaining about how dense Enjolras is and you're just as blind yourself!" Ferre snaps.

It's an unsettling silence that rolls over the table, one that comes with bated breaths. The group tries to back away slowly, Bossuet almost tripping over the chair leg as he goes, and Cosette's hand is firmly over Marius's mouth lest he make a sound that breaks the tension. The only people left to watch the show are Enjolras and Grantaire, who are unknowingly gripping hands, standing somewhat in safe distance from the fight. 

Éponine slips her phone into Grantaire's shirt pocket as she leaves, sauntering away to her locker, satisfied that the exhibit is documented for her perusal forevermore. 

"Operation Moth-erhecker and the CourfMeister is a go. I repeat, Operation Moth-erhecker and the CourfMeister is a go." Grantaire whispers to the side.

The two still unaware of their clasped hands, Enjolras nudges him with his elbow with a "Shut the hell up, Grantaire," and the boy in question answers with an incredulous, "What? At least I didn't swear this time," before shutting up and sitting back to watch the show. 

It is, if Grantaire can say anything, a little like a Mexican stand-off, Courfeyrac ruminating Combeferre's words and the latter displaying an acute desire to be swallowed up whole by the ground.

But finally, Combeferre huffs a sigh and stands up, chair falling to the ground as he looks Courfeyrac dead in the eye.

_"I'm in love with you, you blooming idiot!"_

The words ring in the air for a few moments, clinging to the few leaves that hang from the branches. They were proffered up harshly, perhaps spat was a better word, and Courfeyrac seems taken aback, although if it is by the phrase uttered or the venom with which they were said, no one is for sure. 

Moments pass before Courfeyrac answers with a slightly dazed, "You what mate?": a clearly defensive brain shut-down wherein the only things he can manage to get out of his mouth are dank memes, which is to say that Courfeyrac responded to the combefession with "u wot m8?¿" rather than a more appropriate "pardon me, good sir?". 

"You don't need me to say it again," Combeferre huffs, evidently miffed. 

He begins to turn around, despite Grantaire's "hoe don't do it", muttered over and over on loop. 

"You'll say it for me again if you mean it," Courfeyrac says in a voice so much like Enjolras' it's easy to tell how close they are as friends. 

"Fine. I love you."

"With more meaning."

"I love you?"

"Not like a question!"

"Sweet Jesus, I have loved you since... since an undisclosed amount of time that is too embarrassing to mention, and I still do!" Ferre yells, beyond flustered and on his way to a bad temper. "How many times do you need it until you're satisfied with the amount of humiliation you've caused?"

Enjolras could have sworn he saw Courfeyrac's mouth form the f-word, and the shorter boy crosses the space between them in two steps to stand chest-to-face. 

(Courfeyrac is _not_ short, okay?)

"At the start of the year you asked me if you'd ever done me wrong," he started. "You did. You have. Just had to go and fall for the most perfect, A+ average, super-clarinet-playing, equal rights activist of a human being. Like for God's sake, would you mind being bad at one thing at least? For my sake?"

Combeferre smiles, a shaky one, still a little stunned, with a touch of insecurity, like as if he wasn't sure any of this was real. 

"I can't throw or catch a ball," he offers, and it earns him a light laugh. 

"How many years is an undisclosed amount of time?" Courfeyrac asks. 

"It may have started in year 4," Ferre mumbles behind a hand. "I... only fully came to terms with it this year really, but."

"But I'm the same," Courf finishes off, then his expression changes. "I'm the one you were talking about when we were playing Truth or Dare, wasn't I."

He says it with such a devious little grin that Combeferre almost wants to say no, just to strip the smile off of his face, but he concedes with little reluctance. 

From afar Jehan is cooing -literally cooing- arms wrapped tightly around Éponine, who came back, because "Curiosity's just a bitch, you know? I had to come see for myself". Joly strains an ear to listen to the conversation, but ultimately they're all just left to watch via actions, save for Combeferre's yelling. Bahorel and Feuilly constantly share looks with each other, small smirks that say they totally called it, until it dawns on them they both lost their private betting pool because "Damn it I was two weeks off!" and "You think you've got it bad, Feu? I was five days off!", although they're happy for them, they really are. 

"Can I kiss you?" Courfeyrac asks, breathless. 

"No," he hears in reply, and the two startle to a surly old teacher standing behind them. 

"Are you free this afternoon? I have the house to myself," Ferre suggests, and they link arms to walk back to their lockers before fifth period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   1. Sorry French people. I'm just speaking from experience, when I went to your country your summer was legitimately, no lie, exactly the same as my winter.
>   2. Combefession is now a real word, I've coined it.
>   3. Wow, that happened. Now they can be the fluffy best friends that I adore them as.
>   4. Did you notice I didn't proofread before posting _again_?? I'm just so great!
>   5. Someone get me off here I need to go back to doing maths
> 



	21. Locked Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Satanic woodpeckers.
> 
>  
> 
> That is all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for being patient, my exam block is over and I'm back!! I really hope you're excited for this chapter because I was just bursting to write ever since the last update. It's not as good as I would have hoped it to be, but once again, I was overly excited about writing it so I got ahead of myself. I'm sorry.

The students filter into the band room one by one, evidently not in the mood to be at a band rehearsal on the second-last day of term. They're moaning and groaning as they set up their instruments, and dreaming of the holidays while they sit in their seats, until the conductor comes up to break the terrible news to them. 

"We're having sectionals today." 

Well, there goes all plans of playing with only half their brains turned on. 

 

Grantaire drags the marimba behind him to their assigned room. As the percussion section, there are limited spaces they can occupy, but there's another set of timpani's and the good drum kit resides in the school theatre. Bossuet's been trusted to stick bag holder, and Azelma's small frame wobbles with a box of bits and bobs. 

When they get to the theatre, they're met by something (or rather someone) that honest-to-God makes half the percussion section squeak in fear: Mr. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Singlehandedly  _the_ scariest teacher in all of the school, and the craziest one too. And Grantaire had thought he had escaped his wrath back in Year 9 but _no_ , it's the last rehearsal of term and he's got the devil in human form tapping his foot impatiently on the ground, baton dangling precariously between his fingers. 

"I don't think I've met all of you before," he says, like as if he doesn't know that even the people who don't do music know who he is. Like as if he isn't the infamous Voldemort of the school. 

(Whoops. Said his name.)

"For the Year 12s here, your last big performance is coming up in the second week back next term, and you don't have the time to waste. If this is going to be your last memory of music at school, then you want it to be good."

Grantaire shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. He doesn't know why he's been singled out. 

"And the rest of you, you don't want to be letting your seniors down, do you? How would you feel if your last performance with the school was ruined because the people below you couldn't be bothered to put in the effort?" 

Azelma gulps audibly and it's the only sound that can be heard in the room because everyone's as stiff as a board and unable to move, until Bossuet shifts his weight over to his left leg, somehow trips over the vibraphone chord and flies head first straight into the gong with a resounding  _bong_. 

"Maybe save that circus act for the end of the concert, Lesgle?" the man snaps without missing a beat, and waves his hand to signify the start of their session. 

-«•»-

"You, castanet girl!" the conductor aims his baton at Azelma with a passionate ferocity. "What is this weak _tap tap_ I'm hearing? This is a Spanish dance! This woman is dancing to the love of her life with her red dress flowing behind her, and you think she's going to be twirling on the dance floor playing those castanets for a bunch of fairies? Your audience are humans! Their ears aren't going to burst just because you played mezzoforte!" 

There's an awkward silence where the little girl tries to muster the courage to form a response, but she's too slow. 

"I want a quadruple forte! You play those castanets like a Satanic woodpecker, you hear me? They've got to be like thunder!" 

The percussion section is taken aback. This man - this  _Voldemort_ just uttered the words "Satanic woodpecker" in terms of describing how to play the castanets, a seemingly innocent instrument made of two wooden concave shells attached at the edge with string. Mr. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was renowned to be crazy, sure, but this? It was evident the man had become more senile than any of them had expected. At least, Grantaire doesn't remember him telling people to play their instruments like as if they were devils from the underground when he was in Year 9. 

 

Bossuet will be damned if he doesn't say the rest of rehearsal is just as gruelling. 

-«•»-

Jehan and Courfeyrac come skipping out of sectionals with their arms linked sucking on lollipops, and Grantaire wants to slap those smiles off their faces. Even Combeferre is chewing on half a piece of chocolate of which the other half he's given to Courfeyrac, and basically the entire band looks like they had a wonderful time at sectionals. 

Except, of course, for the percussionists. 

And to make matters worse, they still have to bring the instruments back into the band room. 

Grantaire lugs the gong across the school (he's not letting Bossuet near it again) when Enjolras strolls down from the school library to join the rest of their friends. 

"Hey, the percussionists had a hard time in sectionals today and they have to wheel back the instruments to the band room," Combeferre starts, just when Grantaire's coming back out of the band room to collect more instruments. 

"You wouldn't mind helping them, right?" Courfeyrac says, pushing the blond towards Grantaire while Joly and Musichetta clutch onto Bossuet to make sure he doesn't go to follow them. 

"Right, yeah, sure." 

They walk over in silence to where Bahorel is hiding behind the open door, and receives the text from Courfeyrac that the plan is set and they're ready for him to finish it off. 

Grantaire and Enjolras walk into the theatre, talking about nothing, when the double doors to the theatre click closed. 

Enjolras immediately goes to turn the handle just as they hear a key being pulled out of the door, and someone walks away. 

Was that a teacher? Surely they would have noticed there were still students in the room, they had been talking, for goodness sakes. And not exactly quietly, too. 

"Well hey," Grantaire says, voice unusually small but travelling far in the space of the theatre. "You want a special performance of yours truly on the kit?" 

Enjolras nods and the curly-haired boy bows, before taking his seat at the stool. If he's got a chance toplay loudly enough to alert a teacher that there are people stuck in the theatre (and possibly - just possibly - impress Enjolras), then he'll take it. 

-«•»-

"And it's now officially 5:35," Enjolras sighs at his watch. "What on earth is going on? How has no one come to find us yet?" 

They're lazing in the seats of the theatre with their feet propped up now, a near blasphemous act that would have teachers screaming at them in seconds, except that there are no teachers. Or anybody, for that matter. 

"Well come on, we can just chat while we wait, right? There's plenty we could talk about," Grantaire twirls a drum stick between his fingers. There's not much he can think of to talk about, but he's not letting Enjolras know how bloody nervous he is right now. 

"Like uh, like how successful we were with Operation Courferre?"

"Don't you mean Operation Moth-erfu-" Grantaire can't continue, because there's a hand over his mouth and Enjolras is close;  _very_ close. 

"Enjolras?" he tries to ask, and maybe he shouldn't have tried to speak, he feels like he just molested the palm of Enjolras' hand with his lips- oh  _no_ , don't think about lips, Grantaire, now is not the time to want to kiss the love of his life, that would ruin everything, and just when they were starting to become friends... 

"No swearing," Enjolras whispers, quiet, before removing his hand slowly. Then, with a shaky sigh he looks away. 

"I can't do this. I'm sorry."

Grantaire waits for Enjolras to say something more, ever-patient where the latter would already being demanding answers if the situation were flipped. 

"Are we... are we friends now? Do you call us that? Because I just-" another sigh. "It's too hard for me."

"To what? Be a nice person to an arsehole like me?" he means to bite it out but it almost sounds like as if he's asking how Enjolras is finding the weather in this cool seasonal transition. 

"To pretend that-"

"-you like me. I get it, honestly. I find it hard to like me too, sometimes." 

Enjolras stares at Grantaire incredulously, and something in him finally seems to snap. That's not what he was trying to say  _at all_ , he's always liked Grantaire. Grantaire's... he's great! What was there to  _not_ like about him? He knew the boy may have some confidence issues but this... how could anything Enjolras had been doing all these years be interpreted as him not liking him? That was so- not absurd. It wasn't absurd at all, Enjolras had treated this boy like he was  _rubbish_ and expected him to understand that it was a twisted way of expressing something else. 

He thought to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, how Ferre had just... gotten straight to the point. He set his mind with a huff. There was only one way to solve this. 

_Be honest._ He can do that.

"You're so out of my league it's embarrassing," Enjolras shakes his head. "You're that cool aloof kid in every cheesy rom com ever made, you play the drums and you've got that beanie and your tie's never tied properly. Do you remember how you transferred to my school in Year 6? I panicked for weeks over that. You debated with me about the food the tuckshop offers, for God's sake. How could I not fall in love?" 

Grantaire thinks his brain has spasmed when he answers with, "So the hottest guy in school thinks I'm out of league and he gets turned on by debating."

And a moment of silence, please, for all six of the years that ticked by when these two could have been in a cutesy little rainbows and unicorns relationship. 

There's no sound in the theatre for a long while, where the two mull over the words exchanged and try to process what's going on. Enjolras gets there first, shuffles ever so slightly closer to Grantaire before stopping himself.

"Consent is important," he states. "This is me asking for consent. Am I allowed to kiss you?" 

"And I used to think  _you_ were cool," Grantaire rolls his eyes at the dork before him. "It's what every romantic story starts with. ' _Oh baby, say the three words and I'm yours!_ ' ' _Consent is important._ '" 

Enjolras manages to growl a low "shut up" before he places himself in Grantaire's lap and plants his lips on the boy's. 

-«•»-

It's 6:01pm, their phones have a stream of messages and calls from worried parents, their lips are red and swollen, their hair might as well be birds nests, and they have an evil, conniving bunch of friends who unlock the door for them with a cheer and Goddamn confetti and streamers. 

Enjolras is angry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up and coming in our final chapter is the Graduation! Now you might be thinking _"But Elise! You've never been to an Australian graduation and your own graduation is at the end of the year, how are you going to write that?"_ and if that's you you're absolutely right! I have no idea what I'm doing! As far as I know, graduation can differ from school to school anyway, so we'll wing it and see what happens. 
> 
> And if you're someone who just realised that "Hey... you had Easter and started Term 2 then suddenly all these babies are graduating?!" Then you should know that in my mind Chapter 18 was Term 3. I know it's a bit of a far stretch, and what crazy school would have their Formal in the middle of the busiest term but... look, I'm just a 16 year-old kid who knows nothing about writing, has a tendency to ramble, and has a terrible sense of time.


	22. School's Out, Scream and Shout (in pain and agony Oh God what am I going to do with my life)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, the Amis graduate, and Grantaire contemplates the life ahead of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Uh... it's finished! Thank you, oh fair humans, who have taken the time to read this fic. It's been a pleasure to write, perhaps a little too self-indulgent, but you can... deal with that. Right?
> 
> To Midnight, I hope this was everything you wanted, and to all of you who will watch this sixteen-year-old girl, the mighty Elise, as she deftly avoids describing these kids actually graduating because she has no idea how this stuff goes down. If, however, you are unsatisfied and demand a graduation scene, with a little *cough* encouragement under the table (I'm kidding you don't need to bribe me) I may come back to write it after I myself have graduated at the end of this year. 
> 
> Anywho, onto the story, my chaps! I can't thank any of you enough for reading this, and I'll see you all around :3

It's all too fast, Grantaire feels. He's not even trying to be cliché when he says he feels like he just entered Year 8 last year. To a certain extent, he regrets wishing that high school would end quickly. He's scared, to say the least. Of graduating, of becoming an adult, of going to university, of needing to be entirely independent. He doesn't trust himself to be half the man he should be once he's out those doors for good. 

No more begging Mr. Shizuka to let him hand his pocket form in late because " _please_ sir, I went to every rehearsal this year, and I only missed one music lesson!".

No more accidentally breaking the timpani.

No more antagonising Enjolras in meetings, and no more pining from afar.

(Actually, the latter's a good thing. We'll cross that one off.)

No more trying and failing to wag sport, or getting in trouble for eating lunch on the carpeted area. 

No more morning tea (God bless morning tea), and no more stealing expensive supplies from the art department. 

No more-

"Grantaire? Grantaire! What are you doing you'll miss the war cry!" Jehan calls for him. 

"I can't believe I'm worse than you," he huffs, joining the boy. "Allow me to ask: how exactly is it that you're not sentimentally fawning over the peeling paint of the hand railing and the burnt toast of the tuckshop but  _I am_?" 

"I don't have much to miss, I suppose. I'll be coming back soon anyway."

Grantaire stops, and turns to look at Jehan. In all his panic of coming to the realisation that he would be graduating high school, he had kind of forgotten about his friends.

"I'm writing a play. They're inviting me back so that we can make it into a senior production. I'll get you a free ticket if you're still in town by then."

And his jaw drops, really. He had no idea, and he's so immensely proud, and somehow he's picked Jehan off the ground and is spinning him around in circles, almost in tears. "My own little Shakespeare," he whispers.

"Come on, R," Jehan nudges him, giggling softly. "Let's go catch up to the others."

-«•»-

R finds comfort in knowing that he won't have to miss this strong sense of camaraderie. Some friendships have expiration dates, as tumblr so eloquently says, and as the days of school come to an end you can feel the person curdling like old milk, drifting away from you. But this, these people standing before him right now? They would die together; he was sure of it. It shouldn't matter, that some would move far away, and others would stay right in this town. It wouldn't even matter if they went astray and didn't talk for a few years. This group was  _home_ , and they would always return at one point. 

Once again, he's snapped out of his reverie, but this time it's Enjolras. 

"Hey, you right?" the blond nudges. 

"Never better."

His smile is tight, but it passes, as everyone's attention is taken by Bahorel, who is standing on the table. Grantaire feels guilty that he didn't really listen to the speech, but he gives a supporting roar anyway, and laughs as Enjolras pulls him down right after the speech to scold him.

"You know we haven't graduated yet, right? If at this point you even think of doing something that could get yourself expelled, you'll be doing Year 12 all over again, at a school you've never even heard of before," he hisses, and just in time for a teacher to walk past their table as well. 

They've all heard the stories, kids thinking it'll be a fun idea to smoke weed on the premises by way of graduation, getting expelled on the last day of school, getting shipped off to whatever school that'll take their lowly arses, and needing to go through the whole experience all over again. Grantaire knows Bahorel's not  _that_ stupid, and that it's really Bossuet they need to be careful of, because you never know what might happen by accident. 

"I just can't wait to get out of the stink hole of a roof over my head," Éponine sighs, wistful. Grantaire knows the plan she speaks of, is a part of it, and he's quite excited to play it all out: his first adventure as a free man. 

Montparnasse and Claquesous may be friends of the Thénardier parents, but before that they're friends of Éponine. Unbeknownst to the cruel beings who don't have the right to be called mother and father, Parnasse has been giving Éponine more than her pay, by just a little. So after every shift, Ép gives her parents 30% of the wages they think she earns, and pockets the rest. With that steadily growing fund, she'll buy herself an apartment, and move Gavroche and Azelma in there as well. 

("Look, it's not like they're even going to notice that they haven't been coming home, so why not?")

Taire grins at his friend, and looks to Enjolras; the two are plotting again. Although Operation Moth-erfuc-  _Courferre_ was a success, their matchmaking days are well and truly over, and instead they've been working together to help Éponine out with her apartment fund. It's funny to watch Joly slap a hand over Bossuet's mouth and Musichetta kick him in the shin every time he gets close to accidentally mentioning it, but Grantaire thinks they've been pretty stealthy about it. Cosette's father even went so far as to handcraft a booklet of coupons that, among other things, redeemed a month's worth of food and beverage if ever she were in need. 

Chetta rejoices, finally able to go for that apprenticeship in hair and make up, and Cosette opens up that she's actually wanted to become a fashion designer for quite some time. 

Joly and Ferre toast each other on the long road to pre-med, and Courfeyrac (much to Grantaire's own delight - he has a partner in this cold dark world!) shrugs and says he still doesn't really know what to do with his life. 

Feuilly ponders the vast possibilities, but hopes to get accepted for his double degree at the local university, and Bahorel settles for plumbing, muttering something along the lines of "it's not stupid though. Why does everyone get on their high horses about it? You want a stable job? Do something irreplaceable by technology."

Marius says he found his calling in primary education (Enjolras sighs in relief: the boy would never make it alive teaching at a high school), and gives Cosette a big dopey smile as he tells the group, like as if they have some sort of secret. As long as it's not the fact that Cosette's secretly pregnant, Grantaire thinks he'll be all right. 

Enjolras, of course, is going into law with dreams to change the world. Grantaire would say that he's being idealistic, but he really hopes that his boyfriend will do just that. You see, Enjolras was always destined for something magnificent. Something life-changing, influential, something that would... would bring the world colour like you'd never seen before. 

Because the blond man standing before Grantaire? He was like the anacrusis to a symphony: one small note, that would lead onto something much, much greater. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire sat on the balcony, legs swinging off the ledge as he indulged himself with a Golden Gaytime, the summer sun beating down in a competition of who could finish the ice cream faster: him, or the sun. Looking to his left, sat Enjolras with his trio, and to his right, everyone else he called friends. He smiles to himself, giving his ice cream another generous lick, feeling safe and at home.


End file.
